An Unshared Happiness Is Not Happiness.

Work Is The Order Of The Day, Just As It Was At One Time, With Our First Starts And Our Best Efforts. Do You Remember? Therein Lies Its Delight. It Brings Back The Forgotten; One's Stores Of Energy, Seemingly Exhausted, Come Back To Life.

They Don't Ask Much Of You. They Only Want You To Hate The Things You Love And To Love The Things You Despise.

Failure To Love Is Almost Like Murder.

Art Always Serves Beauty, And Beauty Is The Joy Of Possessing Form, And Form Is The Key To Organic Life Since No Living Thing Can Exist Without It.

February. Get Ink, Shed Tears. Write Of It, Sob Your Heart Out, Sing, While Torrential Slush That Roars Burns In The Blackness Of The Spring. Go Hire A Buggy. For Six Grivnas, Race Through The Noice Of Bells And Wheels To Where The Ink And All You Grieving Are Muffled When The Rainshower Falls. To Where, Like Pears Burnt Black As Charcoal, A Myriad Rooks, Plucked From The Trees, Fall Down Into The Puddles, Hurl Dry Sadness Deep Into The Eyes. Below, The Wet Black Earth Shows Through, With Sudden Cries The Wind Is Pitted, The More Haphazard, The More True The Poetry That Sobs Its Heart Out.