Do You Hear The Children Singing?

Seizing The Swift Logic Of A Woman, Curse God And Die.

Are We No Greater Than The Noise We Make Along One Blind Atomic Pilgrimage Whereon By Crass Chance Billeted We Go Because Our Brains And Bones And Cartilage Will Have It So?

Pity Is Like A Knife, Sometimes, And It May Pierce One Who Employs It More Shrewdly Than The Victim It Would Save.

Do You Hear The Children Singing?

Were It Not For Love, Poor Life Would Be A Ship Not Worth Launching.