I am not, and never was, and never could have been, a brutal scoundrel.

And she was mine, she was mine, the key was in my fist, my fist was in my pocket, she was mine.

Art at its greatest is fantastically deceitful and complex.

My little cup brims with tiddles.

I have no desires, save the desire to express myself in defiance of all the world’s muteness.

In reading, one should notice and fondle details.

There was a time in my demented youth When somehow I suspected that the truth About survival after death was known To every human being: I alone Knew nothing, and a great conspiracy Of books and people hid the truth from me.