Who Ne'er Knew Salt, Or Heard The

Two Diverse Gates There Are Of Bodiless Dreams, These Of Sawn Ivory, And Those Of Horn. Such Dreams As Issue Where The Ivory Gleams Fly Without Fate, And Turn Our Hopes To Scorn. But Dreams Which Issue Through The Burnished Horn, What Man Soe'er Beholds Them On His Bed, These Work With Virtue And Of Truth Are Born.

Few Sons Are Equal To Their Fathers; Most Fall Short, All Too Few Surpass Them.

And Now I'm Using Sarcasm, To Confess The Whole Thing So Later I Could Say I Already Told You.

Light Is The Task Where Many Share The Toil.

From Now On Walking Is My Beer And Feeling Good Is My Hangover.