If You Tell Yourself The Great Lie

The Year She Had Run Fleetly Through The Dewy Grass Under The Moon- The Night Of Wine, When Dreams Condensed Out Of Thin Air Like The Nightmilk Of Fantasy.

Your Hair Is Winter Fire January Embers My Heart Burns There, Too.

Life Was Such A Wheel That No Man Could Stand Upon It For Long. And It Always, At The End, Came Round To The Same Place Again.

The Only [working] Ritual Is Making Tea. I Use The Loose Leaves And Drink It By The Gallon.

Dead Was The Gift That Kept On Giving. Dead, Like Diamonds, Was Forever.