A Nation Which Thinks That It Is

The God Of The Christians Is A Father Who Makes Much Of His Apples, And Very Little Of His Children.

Une Danse Est Un Poe' Me. A Dance Is A Poem.

What A Hell Of An Economic System! Some Are Replete With Everything While Others, Whose Stomachs Are No Less Demanding, Whose Hunger Is Just As Recurrent, Have Nothing To Bite On. The Worst Of It Is The Constrained Posture Need Puts You In. The Needy Man Does Not Walk Like The Rest; He Skips, Slithers, Twists, Crawls.

You Live As If You Were Destined To Live Forever, No Thought Of Your Frailty Ever Enters Your Head, Of How Much Time Has Already Gone By You Take No Heed. You Squander Time As If You Drew From A Full And Abundant Supply, So All The While That Day Which You Bestow On Some Person Or Thing Is Perhaps Your Last. You Have All The Fears Of Mortals And All The Desires Of Immortals… What Foolish Forgetfulness Of Mortality To Defer Wise Resolutions To The Fiftieth Or Sixtieth Year, And To Intend To Begin Life At A Point To Which Few Have Attained.

Only God And Some Few Rare Geniuses Can Keep Forging Ahead Into Novelty.