That Human Existence Should Repeat Itself, Well

No One Reads; If Someone Does Read, He Doesn't Understand; If He Understands, He Immediately Forgets.

Not Far From Here, By A White Sun, Behind A Green Star, Lived The Steelypips, Illustrious, Industrious, And They Hadn't A Care: No Spats In Their Vats, No Rules, No Schools, No Gloom, No Evil Influence Of The Moon, No Trouble From Matter Or Antimatter - For They Had A Machine, A Dream Of A Machine, With Springs And Gears And Perfect In Every Respect. And They Lived With It, And On It, And Under It, And Inside It, For It Was All They Had - First They Saved Up All Their Atoms, Then They Put Them All Together, And If One Didn't Fit, Why They Chipped At It A Bit, And Everything Was Just Fine.

Psychoanalytic Doctrine Reveals The Pig In Man, A Pig Saddled With A Conscience; The Disastrous Result Is That The Pig Is Uncomfortable Beneath That Pious Rider, And The Rider Fares No Better In The Situation, Since His Endeavor Is Not Only To Tame The Pig, But Also To Render It Invisible.

Every Stink That Fights The Ventilator Thinks It Is Don Quixote.

Plentitude, When Too Plentitudinous, Was Worst Than Destitution, For Obviously What Could One Do, If There Was Nothing One Could Not?