I prefer the hell of chaos to the hell of order.

I don't know the role I'm playing. I only know it's mine, non-convertible.

I'm fighting against the bad poet who is prone to using too many words.

But they know about us, they know, the four corners, and the chairs nearby us. Discerning shadows also know, and even the table keeps quiet.

All imperfection is easier to tolerate if served up in small doses.

After every war someone has to tidy up.

There's simply too much fuss about myself.