I Dwell In A Lonely House I

There Are Few Sorrows, However Poignant, In Which A Good Income Is Of No Avail.

Forgive Me My Nonsense, As I Also Forgive The Nonsense Of Those That Think They Talk Sense.

Any Work Of Art Must First Of All Tell A Story.

The World Is Full Of Willing People; Some Willing To Work, The Rest Willing To Let Them.

Now No Joy But Lacks Salt That Is Not Dashed With Pain And Weariness And Fault; I Crave The Stain Of Tears, The Aftermark Of Almost Too Much Love, The Sweet Of Bitter Bark And Burning Clove.