Where am I, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on.

How hideous is the semicolon.

To him who has nothing it is forbidden not to relish filth.

That desert of loneliness and recrimination that men call love.

The time is perhaps not altogether too green for the vile suggestion that art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear, and more than the light of day (or night) makes the subsolar, -lunar, and -stellar excrement. Art is the sun, moon, and stars of the mind, the whole mind.

Two in distressmake sorrow less.

Nothing happens. Nobody comes, nobody goes. It's awful.