My Mind Speaks English, My Heart Speaks

I See Nothing For The Treatment Of My Misery But The Melancholy And Very Local Palliative Of Articulate Art.

The Tiny Madman In His Padded Cell.

Lolita, Light Of My Life, Fire Of My Loins. My Sin, My Soul.

There He Stood, In The Camouflage Of Sun And Shade, Disfigured By Them And Masked By His Own Nakedness.

Do Not Be Angry With The Rain; It Simply Does Not Know How To Fall Upwards.