All The People Like Us Are We,

For All We Take We Must Pay, But The Price Is Cruel High.

Everyone Is More Or Less Mad On One Point.

I Am The Cat Who Walks By Himself, And All Places Are Alike To Me.

The White Moth To The Closing Vine, The Bee To The Open Clover, And The Gypsy Blood To The Gypsy Blood Ever The Wide World Over.

And The First Rude Sketch That The World Had Seen Was Joy To His Mighty Heart, Till The Devil Whispered Behind The Leaves 'it's Pretty, But Is It Art?'