Out, out brief candle, as we hang upon the cheek of night, the full moon...
tempts us like a rich jewel in Shakespeare's ear, Picasso wields his insane brush nervously, artists everywhere wolfing down their own saliva, walking shadows bent with prophetic blessings, over-spending themselves on foot, death be not proud, you cannot win their souls, the full moon courts them as... Sign in to see full entry.