beauty of any kind is in the eye of the beloved and the back of the squeezed.

One for sorrow, two for mirth, three for a funeral, four for birth.”

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

Happiness isn't happiness.

Alms for the poor, alms for the poet.

It's the silence which gets us in the end.

Dual furnaces where the dancer stokes his own doom.

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.