Life, The Permission To Know Death.

To Love Without Criticism Is To Be Betrayed.

When Autumn Shadows Throw Their Patterns Across The Land, They Are Not The Images Of Fragile, Dying Leaves, Not The Bared Arms Of Lofty Elms, Not Shadows Of A Fading Summer; But Swinging Shapes As Of Books Upon A Strap, Of Round And Square Boxes Held Under An Arm, Of Hurrying Little People Heading Towards The Nearest School.

I Talk Too Much Because I Have Been Made So Miserable By What You Are Keeping Hushed.

There's Something Evil In Me That Loves Evil And Degradation--purity's Black Backside! That Loves Honesty With A Horrid Love; Or Why Have I Always Gone Seeking It At The Liar's Door?

None Of Us Suffers As Much As We Should, Or Loves As Much As We Say. Love Is The First Lie; Wisdom The Last.