Civilization Is A Transient Sickness.

Seagulls . . . Slim Yachts Of The Element.

It Seems To Me That This Whole Alone Is Worthy Of The Deeper Sort Of Love; And That There Is Peace, Freedom, I Might Say A Kind Of Salvation, In Turning One's Affections Outward Toward This One God, Rather Than Inwards On One's Self, Or On Humanity, Or On Human Imaginations And Abstractions - The World Of The Spirits.

Oh Heavy Change. The World Deteriorates Like A Rotting Apple, Worms And A Skin.

The World's In A Bad Way, My Man, And Bound To Be Worse Before It Mends; Better Lie Up In The Mountain Here Four Or Five Centuries, While The Stars Go Over The Lonely Ocean.

This Wild Swan Of A World Is No Hunter's Game.