Cry Pretty, Pretty, Pretty And You'll Be

But One Wants The Idea Of Death, You Know, As Something Large And Unknowable, Something That Allows A Person To Stretch Himself Out. Especially One Wants It If One Is Tired. Or Perhaps What One Wants Is Simply A Release From Sensation, From All Consciousness For Ever.

I Only Asked My Friends To Be Friendly And Polite, I Found Them Indifferent And Censorious; The One I Left To Silence, The Other To Reproach: God Send Me Over All Such Friends Victorious.

The Flower And Fruit Of Love Are Mine The Ant, The Fieldmouse And The Mole

I'm Alive Today, Therefore I'm Just As Much A Part Of Our Time As Everybody Else. The Times Will Just Have To Enlarge Themselves To Make Room For Me, Won't They, And For Everybody Else.

Life May Be Treacherous, But You Can Always Depend On Death.