For me, poetry is an impish attempt to paint the colour of the wind.
Words are soldiers of fortune hired by different ideas.
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.
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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