So Society Has Strangled In Its Asylums

How Hard Is It, When Everything Encourages Us To Sleep, Though We May Look About Us With Conscious, Clinging Eyes, To Wake And Yet Look About Us As In A Dream, With Eyes That No Longer Know Their Function And Whose Gaze Is Turned Inward.

Written Poetry Is Worth Reading Once, And Then Should Be Destroyed. Let The Dead Poets Make Way For Others. Then We Might Even Come To See That It Is Our Veneration For What Has Already Been Created, However Beautiful And Valid It May Be, That Petrifies Us.

No One Has Ever Written, Painted, Sculpted, Modeled, Built, Or Invented Except Literally To Get Out Of Hell.

I Prefer The People Who Eat Off The Bare Earth The Delirium From Which They Were Born.

I Am Stigmatized By A Living Death In Which Real Death Holds No Terrors For Me.