Home Is Where The Books Are

Reason Is Life's Sole Arbiter, Themagic Laby'rinth's Single Clue.

The Now, That Indivisible Point Which Studs The Length Of Infinite Line Whose Ends Are Nowhere, Is Thine All , The Puny All Thou Callest Thine.

The Men Were Wild As Ourang-outans, And The Women Fit Only To Flog Cattle.

Travellers, Like Poets, Are Mostly An Angry Race: By Falling Into A Daily Fit Of Passion, I Proved To The Governor And His Son, Who Were Profuse In Their Attentions, That I Was In Earnest.

Friends Of My Youth, A Last Adieu! Haply Some Day We Meet Again; Yet Ne'er The Self-same Men Shall Meet; The Years Shall Make Us Other Men.