Though they go mad they shall be sane, though they sink through the sea they shall rise again; though lovers be lost love shall not; and death shall have no dominion.

Come on up, boys -I'm dead.

Beginning with doom in the bulb, the spring unravels.

What I like to do is treat words as a craftsman does his wood or stone or what-have-you, to hew, carve, mold, coil, polish, and plane them into patterns, sequences, sculptures, fugues of sound expressing some lyrical impulse, some spiritual doubt or conviction, some dimly realized truth I must try to reach and realize.

Though lovers be lost love shall not.

I've just had eighteen straight whiskies. I think that's the record.

Nothing grows in our garden, only washing. And babies.