Let Me Be Boiled To Death With

Society Is No Comfort, To One Not Sociable.

Within The Book And Volume Of Thy Brain.

He Is Well Paid That Is Well Satisfied.

The Elephant Hath Joints, But None For Courtesy; His Legs Are Legs For Necessity, Not For Flexure.

Is This A Dagger Which I See Before Me, The Handle Toward My Hand? Come, Let Me Clutch Thee. I Have Thee Not, And Yet I See Thee Still. Art Thou Not, Fatal Vision, Sensible To Feeling As To Sight? Or Art Thou But A Dagger Of The Mind, A False Creation, Proceeding From The Heat-oppressed Brain?