I've Never Had Any Intentions About Anything.

The World May Think It Idiotic, Nor Care At All We're Symbiotic, But I Will Say At Once And Twice: I Find It Nice. I Find It Nice.

I Don't Think Anything Might Have Been. What Is, Is.

If I Do Not Seem To Be Mentioning Anything I’ve Read Lately, It Is Because I Am In One Of Those Periods Of Undifferentiated Flux Or Something In Which I Am Reading About Fifty, At A Minimum, Books At Once, So Of Course I Seldom Finish One. Eventually This Phase Will Pass, And I’ll Discover I Have About Ten Pages To Go In All Of Them, And Will Sit Down And Systematically Finish Them, One After Another.

The Suicide, As She Is Falling, Illuminated By The Moon, Regrets Her Act, And Finds Appalling The Thought She Will Be Dead So Soon.

It's Well We Cannot Hear The Screams We Make In Other People's Dreams.