Man cannot live on bread alone; sometimes, he needs a malt.

Happiness isn't happiness.

For the heart is an organ of fire, stellar power, truth, beauty, and love.

Ripped from the pages of imagination to live as a fabricated memory.

I gush so many words for fear that each one may someday be my last. This is a terrible and a wonderful fear.

I burn, she steadies; my wild flame finds home in the shelter of her love.