What is madness but nobility of soul at odds with circumstance.

Who sighs from far away?

Dreams drain the spirit if we dream too long.

I fear those shadows most that start from my own feet.

What’s freedom for? To know eternity.

Brooding on God, I may become a man.

Civilization is over-rated, but there isn’t much else.

I can’t go on flying apart just for those who want the benefit of a few verbal kicks. My God, do you know what poems like that cost? They’re not written vicariously: they come out of actual suffering, real madness.

What’s important? That which is dug out of books, or out of the guts?

Pain wanders through my bones like a lost fire.