I Would Never Write In Response To

Every Advance In Knowledge And Technique Is Matched By A New Kind Of Death, A New Strain. Death Adapts, Like A Viral Agent.

People Say Great Art Is Immortal. I Say There's Something Mortal In It. It Carries A Glimpse Of Death.

Mirrors And Images. Or Sex And Love. These Are Two Separate Systems That We Miserably Try To Link.

A Person Rises On A Word And Falls On A Syllable.

Facts Are Lonely Things.