Still, Vicious Or Virtuous, Love Suits Most

Death: The Anaesthetic From Which None Come Round.

Joy Is For The Simple Or The Great To Feel, Neither Of Which We Are.

The Breath That Sharpens Life Is Life Itself.

I Am Beginning To Think Of The Human Imagination As A Fruit Machine On Which Victories Are Rare And Separated By Much Vain Expense, And Represent A Rare Alignment Of Mental And Spiritual Qualities That Normally Are Quite At Odds.

What Are Days For? Days Are Where We Live.