Human, All Too Human.

Out Of Damp And Gloomy Days, Out Of Solitude, Out Of Loveless Words Directed At Us, Conclusions Grow Up In Us Like Fungus: One Morning They Are There, We Know Not How, And They Gaze Upon Us, Morose And Gray. Woe To The Thinker Who Is Not The Gardener But Only The Soil Of The Plants That Grow In Him.

And Like A Wind Shall I One Day Blow Amongst Them And With My Spirit Take Away Their Soul's Breath: Thus My Future Wills It.

What? A Great Man? I Only Ever See The Ape Of His Own Ideal.

Memory Says, 'i Did That.' Pride Replies, 'i Could Not Have Done That.' Eventually, Memory Yields.

In Pain There Is As Much Wisdom As In Pleasure: Like The Latter It Is One Of The Best Self Preservatives Of A Species.