Pretty girls make graves

listen to the silence inside the illusion of the world, and you will remember the lesson you forgot

Books, shmooks, this sickness has got me wishing if I can ever get out of this I'll gladly become a millworker and shut my big mouth.

But night would come and with it the mountain moon and the lake would be moon - laned and I'd go out and sit in the grass and meditate facing west, wishing there were a Personal God in all this impersonal matter.

Between incomprehensible and incoherent sits the madhouse. I am not in the madhouse.

At night I closed my eyes and saw my bones threading the mud of my grave.

Oftentimes an originator of new language forms is called 'pretentious' by jealous talents. But it ain’t whatcha write, it’s the way atcha write it.