Poetry And Prison Have Always Been Neighbors.

I'd Obviously Never Heard Of The Group, But My Ignorance In Literary Matters Is To Blame For That (every Book In The World Is Out There Waiting To Be Read By Me).

If Life Is Misery, Why Do We Endure It?

The Truth Is We Never Stop Being Children, Terrible Children Covered In Sores And Knotty Veins And Tumors And Age Spots, But Ultimately Children, In Other Words We Never Stop Clinging To Life Because We Are Life.

Only In Chaos Are We Conceivable.

Bright Colours In The West, Giant Butterflies Dancing As Night Crept Like A Cripple Toward The East.