Seven to eleven is a huge chunk of life, full of dulling and forgetting. It is fabled that we slowly lose the gift of speech with animals, that birds no longer visit our windowsills to converse. As our eyes grow accustomed to sight they armor themselves against wonder.

From bitter searching of the heart, quickened with passion and with pain we rise to play a greater part this is the faith from which we start.

I told the truth, I didn't come to fool you

..you wanted to be the Superman who was never Clark Kent

Don't call yourself a secret unless you mean to keep it.

My interest in this pack of failures betrays my character.

And I'll dance with you in Vienna, I'll be wearing a river's disguise. The hyacinth wild on my shoulder my mouth on the dew of your thighs. And I'll bury my soul in a scrapbook, with the photographs there and the moss. And I'll yield to the flood of your beauty, my cheap violin and my cross.