Cries Of Despair, Misery, Sobbing Grief Are

War Is Not An Adventure. It Is A Disease. It Is Like Typhus.

Water, Thou Hast No Taste, No Color, No Odor; Canst Not Be Defined, Art Relished While Ever Mysterious. Not Necessary To Life, But Rather Life Itself, Thou Fillest Us With A Gratification That Exceeds The Delight Of The Senses.

It Is Always In The Midst, In The Epicenter, Of Your Troubles That You Find Serenity.

The Tree Is More Than First A Seed, Then A Stem, Then A Living Trunk, And Then Dead Timber. The Tree Is A Slow, Enduring Force Straining To Win The Sky.

For, To Conceited Men, All Other Men Are Admirers.