People Only Tell Lies When

Painting Taught Literature To Describe.

Time Had Not Faded My Memories (as I Had Prayed To God It Might), Nor Had It Healed My Wounds As It Is Said Always To Do. I Began Each Day With The Hope That The Next Day Would Be Better, My Recollections A Little Less Pointed, But I Would Awake To The Same Pain, As If A Black Lamp Were Burning Eternally Inside Me, Radiating Darkness.

When Something Explosive Is Kept Hidden Away, A Tension Builds Within That Must Ultimately Be Released.

When You Love A City And Have Explored It Frequently On Foot, Your Body, Not To Mention Your Soul, Gets To Know The Streets So Well After A Number Of Years That In A Fit Of Melancholy, Perhaps Stirred By A Light Snow Falling Ever So Sorrowfully, You'll Discover Your Legs Carrying You Of Their Own Accord Toward One Of Your Favourite Promontories

We're Not Stupid! We're Just Poor! And We Have A Right To Insist On This Distinction