She Was A Faded But Still Lovely

Poetry Is Either Something That Lives Like Fire Inside You

Here's To Alcohol, The Rose Colored Glasses Of Life.

Writing Is Eternal, For Therein The Dead Heart Liveth, The Clay-cold Tongue Is Eloquent, And The Quick Eye Of The Reader Is Cleared By The Reed Of The Scribe. As A Fossil In The Rock, Or A Coin In The Mortar Of A Ruin, So The Symbolled Thoughts Tell Of A Departed Soul: The Plastic Hand Hath Its Witness In A Statue, And Exactitude Of Vision In A Picture, And So, The Mind, That Was Among Us, In Its Writings Is Embalmed.

Intelligence Is A Mere Instrument Of Circumstances.

The Hangover Became A Part Of The Day As Well Allowed-for As The Spanish Siesta.