The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap And seeing that it was a soft October night Curled once about the house, and fell asleep

So first, your memory I'll jog, And say: A CAT IS NOT A DOG

So I find words I never thought to speak In streets I never thought I should revisit When I left my body on a distant shore.

We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.

I think we are in rats’ alley Where the dead men lost their bones.

The definition of hell is a place where nothing connects with nothing.

I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids Sprouting despondently at area gates.