The sounds of the city, mixed with my mind, is all I can take some insomniac nights: the quiet yet throbbing hum of street-lights; the steady, lion-...
To the poet's eye, the grass is brilliantly verdant, and the sky is Apollo's chariot strewn race-course. To the poet's eye, a spell of the blues is a...
legions of light orbit vast cubist skyscrapers; in moats of misunderstanding Data from small talk from libraries, offices form a thought cloud above...
