Whatever We Worship, Short Of God, Is

The Neurotic Circles Ceaselessly Above A Fogged-in Airport.

Failure Can Get To Be A Rather Comfortable Old Friend.

Fields Can Lie Fallow But We Can't; We Have Less Time.

The Fault We Admit To Is Seldom The Fault We Have, But It Has A Certain Relationship To It, A Somewhat Similar Shape, Like That Of A Sleeve To An Arm.

The Neurotic Longs To Touch Bottom, So At Least He Won't Have That To Worry About Anymore.