For me, poetry is an impish attempt to paint the colour of the wind.
H. L. Mencken suffers from the hallucination that he is H. L. Mencken - there is no cure for a disease of that magnitude.
Time is but a phantom dagger
That motion lifts to slay itself.
Words are soldiers of fortune hired by different ideas.
Reality is a formless lure, And only when we know this Do we dare to be unreal.
Thank you for inviting me to your house, but I prefer to dine in the Greek restaurant at Wabash Avenue and 12th Street where I will be limited to finding dead flies in my soup.
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