Convinced Myself, I Seek Not To Convince.

Even In The Grave, All Is Not Lost.

Once Upon A Midnight Dreary

I Seemed To Be Upon The Verge Of Comprehension, Without The Power To Comprehend As Men, At Time, Find Themselves Upon The Brink Of Rememberance, Without Being Able, In The End, To Remember.

I Wish I Could Write As Mysterious As A Cat.

The Mere Imitation, However Accurate, Of What Is In Nature, Entitles No Man To The Sacred Name Of Artist