I have just had eighteen whiskeys in a row. I do believe that is a record.

This poem has been called obscure. I refuse to believe that it is obscurer than pity, violence, or suffering. But being a poem, not a lifetime, it is more compressed.

Why do men think you can pick love up and re-light it like a candle? Women know when love is over.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.

The moment of a miracle is unending lightning.

Beginning with doom in the bulb, the spring unravels.

I do not need any friends. I prefer enemies. They are better company and their feelings towards you are always genuine.