See The Moon? It Hates Us.

The Privileged Classes Can Afford Psychoanalysis And Whiskey. Whereas All We Get Is Sermons And Sour Wine. This Is Manifestly Unfair. I Protest, Silently.

His Examiner Said Severely: "baskerville, You Blank Round, Discursiveness Is Not Literature." "the Aim Of Literature," Baskerville Replied Grandly, "is The Creation Of A Strange Object Covered With Fur Which Breaks Your Heart."

I Believe That Because I Had Obtained A Wife Who Was Made Up Of Wife-signs (beauty, Charm, Softness, Perfume, Cookery) I Had Found Love.

Best Not To Anticipate Too Much ... It Jiggles The Possibilities.

Endings Are Elusive, Middles Are Nowhere To Be Found, But Worst Of All Is To Begin, To Begin, To Begin.