I Try. I Fail. I Try Again.

They Give Birth Astride Of A Grave, The Light Gleams An Instant, Then It's Night Once More.

An Imaginative Adventure Does Not Enjoy The Same Corsets As Reportage.

Habit Is A Great Deadener.

Birth Was The Death Of Him.

Just Under The Surface I Shall Be, All Together At First, Then Separate And Drift, Through All The Earth And Perhaps In The End Through A Cliff Into The Sea, Something Of Me. A Ton Of Worms In An Acre, That Is A Wonderful Thought, A Ton Of Worms, I Believe It.