Anything You Can Settle With Money Is

(ravic Speaking Of A Butterfly Caught In The Louvre) In The Morning It Would Search For Flowers And Life And The Light Honey Of Blossoms And Would Not Find Them And Later It Would Fall Asleep On Millennial Marble, Weakened By Then, Until The Grip Of The Delicate, Tenacious Feet Loosened And It Fell, A Thin Leaf Of Premature Autumn.

We Are Little Flames Poorly Sheltered By Frail Walls Against The Storm Of Dissolution And Madness, In Which We Flicker And Sometimes Almost Go Out…we Creep In Upon Ourselves And With Big Eyes Stare Into The Night…and Thus We Wait For Morning.

Through The Years Our Business Has Been Killing;-it Was Our First Calling In Life. Our Knowledge Of Lif Eis Limited To Death.

... But That's What Mankind Is Like: They Only Prize What They No Longer Possess.

Life Did Not Intend To Make Us Perfect. Whoever Is Perfect Belongs In A Museum.