I Want To Be A Poet, From

While The Poet Wrestles With The Horses On His Brain And The Sculptor Wounds His Eyes On The Hard Spark Of Alabaster, The Dancer Battles The Air Around Her, Air That Threatens At Any Moment To Destroy Her Harmony Or To Open Huge Open Empty Spaces Where Her Rhythm Will Be Annihilated.

The Day We Stop Resisting Our Instincts, We'll Have Learned How To Live.

At The Heart Of All Great Art Is An Essential Melancholy.

If Blue Is Dream What Then Innocence? What Awaits The Heart If Love Bears No Arrows?

Everything's A Fan. Brother, Open Up Your Arms. God Is The Pivot.