Not Until It Starts To

The Sun Fades Like The Spreading Of A Peacock's Tail, As Though Twilight Might Be Read As A Warning To Those Desperate For Easy Solutions.

I Write With Experiences In Mind, But I Don't Write About Them, I Write Out Of Them.

A Perfect Example Of The New Republic's Urge To Drape Itself With The Togas Of Classical Respectability.

We Are Prisoners Of The World's Demented Sink. The Soft Enchantments Of Our Years Of Innocence Are Harvested By Accredited Experience Our Fondest Memories Soon Turn To Poison And Only Oblivion Remains In Season.

I Lost My Ridiculous Accent Without Acquiring Another