Even Without Wars, Life Is Dangerous.

Our Eyes Are Full Of Terrible Confessions.

The Silence Is Death. It Comes Each Day With Its Shock To Sit On My Shoulder, A White Bird, And Peck At The Black Eyes And The Vibrating Red Muscle Of My Mouth.

Evil Is Maybe Lying To God. Or Better, Lying To Love.

Let There Be Seasons So That Our Tongues Will Be Rich In Asparagus And Limes.

Man Is A Bird Full Of Mud, I Say Aloud. And Death Looks On With A Casual Eye And Scratches His Anus.