My Hole Is Warm And Full Of

I Am Nobody But Myself.

If Social Protest Is Antithetical To Art, What Then Shall We Make Of Goya, Dickens, And Twain?

Meaning Grows In The Mind, But The Shape And Form Of The Act Remains.

There Are Few Things In The World As Dangerous As Sleepwalkers.

I Was Never More Hated Than When I Tried To Be Honest. Or When, Even As Just Now I've Tried To Articulate Exactly What I Felt To Be The Truth. No One Was Satisfied