It Is Better To Go In The

I Live, I Burn With Life, I Love, I Slay, & Am Content.

I Became A Writer In Spite Of My Environments.

There Comes, Even To Kings, The Time Of Great Weariness. Then The Gold Of The Throne Is Brass, The Silk Of The Palace Becomes Drab. The Gems In The Diadem And Upon The Fingers Of The Women Sparkle Drearily Like The Ice Of White Seas; The Speech Of Men Is As The Empty Rattle Of A Jester's Bell And The Feel Comes Of Things Unreal; Even The Sun Is Copper In The Sky And The Breath Of The Green Ocean Is No Longer Fresh.

Every Twinge Of Sensation, Even Of Agony, Was A Negation Of Death.

Wits And Swords Are As Straws Against The Wisdom Of The Darkness.