I have one head that wants to be good, And one that wants to be bad. And always, as soon as I get up, One of my heads is sad.

I'm smiled out, talked out, quipped out, socialized so far from any being, I need the weight of mortal silences to get realized back into myself.

Written by a sponge dipped in warm milk and sprinkled with sugar.

Every parent is at some time the father of the unreturned prodigal, with nothing to do but keep his house open to hope.

Nothing goes further toward a man's liberation than the act of surviving his need for character.

A man is what he does with his attention and mine is not for sale.

Spontaneous is what you get after the seventeenth draft.