Shakespeare Tells The Same Stories Over And

I Would Talk In Iambic Pentameter If It Were Easier.

Children, To Be Illustrious Is Sad.

The Spirit World Doesn't Admit To Communicating With Me, So It's Fairly Even.

When In Still Air And Still In Summertime A Leaf Has Had Enough Of This, It Seems To Make Up Its Mind To Go; Fine As A Sage Its Drifting In Detachment Down The Road.

The Only Way Out Is The Way Through, Just As You Cannot Escape Death Except By Dying. Being Unable To Write, You Must Examine In Writing This Being Unable, Which Becomes For The Present -henceforth?- The Subject To Which You Are Condemned.