I'm Sort Of Murdered For Selling Books.

Rigel, Betelgeuse, And Orion. There Was No Finer Church, No Finer Choir, Than The Stars Speaking In Silence To The Many Consumptives Silently Condemned, A Legion Upon The Dark Rooftops. The Wind Came Down From The North Like A Runner In Lacrosse, Violent And Hard, To Batter Every Living Thing. They Were There, Each One Alone In Conversation With The Stars, Mining Ephemeral Love From Cold And Distant Light.

When Faced With Something I Fear, I Tend To Eat Spaghetti.

For What Can Be Imagined More Beautiful Than The Sight Of A Perfectly Just City Rejoicing In Justice Alone.

He Felt As If He Were Paying For The Privilege Of Music With Portions Of His Life And Body. But It Was Well Worth It.

They're Not Just Dreams. Not Anymore, I Dream More Than I Wake Now, And, At Times, I Have Crossed Over. Can't You See? I've Been There.