A Paranoiac, Like A Poet, Is Born,

I Can't Help Feeling That There Is No Beauty Without Hope, Struggle, And Conquest.

Tobacco And Alcohol, Delicious Fathers Of Abiding Friendships And Fertile Reveries.

Frankly, Despite My Horror Of The Press, I'd Love To Rise From The Grave Every Ten Years Or So And Go Buy A Few Newspapers.

If Someone Were To Tell Me I Had Twenty Years Left, And Ask Me How I'd Like To Spend Them, I'd Reply 'give Me Two Hours A Day Of Activity, And I'll Take The Other Twenty-two In Dreams.'

Thank God, I Am Still An Atheist.