Me Volví Loco, Con Largos Intervalos De

Dreams Are The Eraser Dust I Blow Off My Page. They Fade Into The Emptiness, Another Dark Gray Day. Dreams Are Only Memories Of The Plans I Had Back Then. Dreams Are Eraser Dust And Now I Use A Pen.

Poetry Is The Rhythmical Creation Of Beauty In Words.

In The Tale Proper--where There Is No Space For Development Of Character Or For Great Profusion And Variety Of Incident--mere Construction Is, Of Course, Far More Imperatively Demanded Than In The Novel.

I Have No Words Alas! To Tell The Loveliness Of Loving Well

The Best Things In Life Make You Sweaty.