On The Other Hand, A Flaccid, Moping,

The Oyster Leads A Dreadful But Exciting Life. Indeed, His Chance To Live At All Is Slim, And If He Should Survive The Arrows Of His Own Outrageous Fortune And In The Two Weeks Of His Carefree Youth Find A Clean Smooth Place To Fix On, The Years Afterwards Are Full Of Stress, Passion, And Danger.

If Time, So Fleeting, Must Like Humans Die, Let It Be Filled With Good Food And Good Talk, And Then Embalmed In The Perfumes Of Conviviality.

There's A Communion Of More Than Our Bodies When Bread Is Broken And Wine Drunk.

Painting, It Is True, Was Undergoing A Series Of -isms Reminiscent Of The Whims Of A Pregnant Woman.

There Is A Communication Of More Than Our Bodies When Bread Is Broken And Wine Is Drunk. And That Is My Answer When People Ask Me: Why Do You Write About Hunger, And Not Wars Or Love.