Beneath A Mask Of Selfish Tranquility Nothing

Peace ... Is A Morbid Condition, Due To A Surplus Of Civilians, Which War Seeks To Remedy.

In A Perfect Union The Man And Woman Are Like A Strung Bow. Who Is To Say Whether The String Bends The Bow, Or The Bow Tightens The String?

Words Today Are Like The Shells And Rope Of Seaweed Which A Child Brings Home Glistening From The Beach And Which In An Hour Have Lost Their Luster.

No One Can Achieve Serenity Until The Glare Of Passion Is Past The Meridian.

Approaching Forty, I Had A Singular Dream In Which I Almost Grasped The Meaning And Understood The Nature Of What It Is That Wastes In Wasted Time.