You Have No Idea, Sir, How Difficult

I Thought That When They Said Atlantic Charter, That Meant Me And Everybody In Africa And Asia And Everywhere. But It Seems Like The Atlantic Is An Ocean That Does Not Touch Anywhere But North America And Europe.

I Made Up My Mind To Keep My Feelings To Myself Since They Did Not Seem To Matter To Anyone Else But Me.

Perhaps, It Is Just As Well To Be Rash And Foolish For A While. If Writers Were Too Wise, Perhaps No Books Would Be Written At All. It Might Be Better To Ask Yourself "why?" Afterwards Than Before. Anyway, The Force From Somewhere In Space Which Commands You To Write In The First Place, Gives You No Choice. You Take Up The Pen When You Are Told, And Write What Is Commanded. There Is No Agony Like Bearing An Untold Story Inside You.

I Belong To No Race Nor Time. I Am The Eternal Feminine With Its String Of Beads.

The Monstropolous Beast Had Left His Bed. The Two Hundred Miles A Hour Wind Had Loosed His Chains. He Seized Hold Of His Dikes And Ran Forward Until He Met The Quarters; Uprooted Them Like Grass And Rushed On After His Supposed-to-be Conquerors, Rolling The Dikes, Rolling The Houses, Rolling The People In The Houses Along With Other Timbers. The Sea Was Walking The Earth With A Heavy Heel.