Abode where lost bodies roam each searching for its lost one.

Poets are the sense, philosophers­­ the intelligence­­ of humanity.

The dust will not settle in our time. And when it does some great roaring machine will come and whirl it all skyhigh again.

We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.

Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards, I take the air there willingly, perhaps more willingly than elsewhere, when take the air I must.

What goes by the name of love is banishment, with now and then a postcard from the homeland, such is my considered opinion, this evening.

Dance first. Think later. It's the natural order.