Wallowing In This Bloody Sty,

Talking About The Past Is Like A Cat's Trying To Explain Climbing Down A Ladder.

In The End, There Is No End.

The World Is Absolutely Out Of Control Now And Is Not Going To Be Saved By Any Reason Or Unreason.

We Feel The Machine Slipping From Our Hands As If Someone Else Were Steering; If We See Light At The End Of The Tunnel, It's The Light Of The Oncoming Train.

Poetry Is Not The Record Of An Event: It Is An Event.