I Never Feel More At Home Than

People Who Read Me Seem To Be Divided Into Four Groups: Twenty-five Percent Like Me For The Right Reasons; Twenty-five Percent Like Me For The Wrong Reasons; Twenty-five Percent Hate Me For The Wrong Reasons; Twenty-five Percent Hate Me For The Right Reasons. It's That Last Twenty-five Percent That Worries Me.

If Society Fits You Comfortably Enough, You Call It Freedom.

You Can't Get Too Much Winter In The Winter.

Some Spirit To Stand Simply Forth, Heroic In Its Nakedness, Against The Uttermost Of Earth.

Love Has Earth To Which She Clings.