It's weird how people who are the least close to me or who've never even met me purport to be experts on the real me; and then, sadly, there are those who could be in touch with me but prefer to gossip with strangers about me instead.

I became a total yes. We don't even have names anymore.

Poets can't worry about popularity since loving life and humanity involves saying what some people don't want to hear.

Where you see valid achievements or virtue being attacked, it's by someone viewing them as a mirror of their own inadequacy instead of an inspiring beacon for excellence.

Remembrance of our kiss brings not your lips nor mine to mind. The flesh can only envy consumption so divine.

Our lives are fictions, a work we leave behind, signed.

Hate: return to sender; address unknown.