Artists Are, Above All, Men Who Want

I Sing The Joy Of Wandering And The Pleasure Of The Wanderer's Death

One Can't Carry One's Father's Corpse About Everywhere.

My, How Beautiful Is War! Its Songs, Its Leisure!

It's Raining My Soul, It's Raining, But It's Raining Dead Eyes.

Come To The Edge.' 'we Can't. We're Afraid.' 'come To The Edge.' 'we Can't. We Will Fall!' 'come To The Edge.' And They Came. And He Pushed Them. And They Flew.