The Gods Are Watching, But Idly, Yawning.

No Chaos, No Creation. Evidence: The Kitchen At Mealtime.

Guilt Stirs Me, But Only To Self-pity.

Between Repetition And Forgetting, It Is A Marvel That A New Thought Ever Struggles Into Existence.

If Folly Disappeared, Wit Would Starve.

The Aim Of Literary Ambition Is To Demonstrate One's Greatness Of Soul.