Perhaps Life Is Just That... A Dream

I Take It That What All Men Are Really After Is Some Form Or Perhaps Only Some Formula Of Peace.

There Is A Taint Of Death, A Flavour Of Mortality In Lies.

This Magnificent Butterfly Finds A Little Heap Of Dirt And Sits Still On It; But Man Will Never On His Heap Of Mud Keep Still.

The Mind Of Man Is Capable Of Anything.

Even Extreme Grief May Ultimately Vent Itself In Violence--but More Generally Takes The Form Of Apathy