I Can't Even Make Up A Rhyme

...i Will Exile My Thoughts If They Think Of You Again, And I Will Rip My Lips Out If They Say Your Name Once More. Now If You Do Exist, I Will Tell You My Final Word In Life Or In Death, I Tell You Goodbye.

Language Must Resound With All The Harmonies Of Music. The Writer Must Always, At All Times, Find The Tremulous Word Which Captures The Thing And Is Able To Draw A Sob From My Soul By Its Very Rightness.

The Writer Must Be Able To Revel And Roll In The Abundance Of Words; He Must Know Not Only The Direct But Also The Secret Power Of A Word. There Are Overtones And Undertones To A Word, And Lateral Echoes, Too.

You Are Welcome To Your Intellectual Pastimes And Books And Art And Newspapers; Welcome, Too, To Your Bars And Your Whisky That Only Makes Me Ill. Here Am I In The Forest, Quite Content.

The Long, Long Road Over The Moors And Up Into The Forest - Who Trod It Into Being First Of All? Man, A Human Being, The First That Came Here. There Was No Path Before He Came.