Music, The Knife Without A Hilt.

But I Despised Men Who Accepted Their Fate. I Shaped Mine Twenty Times And Had It Broken Twenty Times In My Hands.

I Would Give You My Soul In A Blackberry Pie; And A Knife To Cut It With.

Today,’ Said Lymond, ‘if You Must Know, I Don’t Like Living At All. But That’s Just Immaturity Boggling At The Sad Face Of Failure. Tomorrow I’ll Be Bright As A Bedbug Again.

He Regards Boredom, I Observe, As The One And Mighty Enemy Of His Soul. And Will Succeed In Conquering It, I Am Sure—if He Survives The Experience.

Look Up . . . And See Them. The Teaching Stars, Beyond Worship And Commonplace Tongues.