Art Is A Mystery. A Mystery Is

Unless You Love Someone, Nothing Else Makes Any Sense.

Somewhere I Have Never Travelled, Gladly Beyond

At Least The Pilgrim Fathers Used To Shoot Indians: The Pilgrim Children Merely Punch Time Clocks.

A Man Who Had Fallen Among Thieves Lay By The Roadside On His Back Dressed In Fifteenthrate Ideas Wearing A Round Jeer For A Hat

I'm Living So Far Beyond My Income That We May Almost Be Said To Be Living Apart.