Aesthetes focus is on the body of thought.

The arts are subjective, predicated on interpretation of line or voice.

Mediocrity is condemned to live its life undisturbed.

Those who choose others cuisine usually have a miserable waiter as well.

The ill logic of passion sickens every chance of love to be significant.

Our first love is our own undoing, our last is the doing of the other.

Suicides rarely decide to coincide with the uninspired of others.

Life has a cemetery of forgotten lovers and unfounded memory.

Cowardice confounds the beginning and end of sorrows.

Death relieves us while love revives us.

Either we serve our master or a monster.

There is nothing final in a poet's notebook.

Love without eros is uninspired, without caritas it's deaf, withour agape

it is dumbfounded.

The love of change leaves a poor man in his own pauper's lane.

Money as the only value in life doubles as a dishonest friend or honest

enemy.

No poet should imitate a mocking bird.

Insults at an auction bid the first to be sold, the last to be told.

Lies are quickly swallowed, digested and spat out.

Exploitation has the force, face, and farce of a nation's expression.

Fascism has the hooliganism of the moment, the timeless sadism of the

soul.

A poet's conviction is his last sentence.

The habit of work pretends to satisfy our life.

Some are born the betray others or double cross themselves.

The more one claims misfortune and rants about it the chance is that more 

of the others are deceived.

Old enemies in war quickly make a peace treaty with defeated foes but

are never comrades.