Your memory and your senses will be nourishment for your creativity.

The Poet makes himself a seer through a long, vast and painstaking derangement of all the senses

My wisdom is as spurned as chaos. What is my nothingness, compared to the amazement that awaits you?

...as for me, I am intact; and I don't care.

Love...no such thing. Whatever it is that binds families and married couples together, that's not love. That's stupidity or selfishness or fear. Love doesn't exist. Self interest exists, attachment based on personal gain exists, complacency exists. But not love. Love has to be reinvented, that’s certain.

I wrote silences; nights; I recorded the unnameable.

I'm intact, and I don't give a damn.