I keep thinking I've gotten to the bottom of the barrel of craziness that surrounds Harold Lloyd. Not a bit of it. Here is a piece...

At dawn my lover comes to me and tells me of her dreams With no attempt to shovel the glimpse into the ditch of what each one means. ...

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for yo...