A Thousand Kindnesses Do Not Make Up

What We Suffer, What We Endure, What We Muff, What We Kill, What We Miss, What We Are Guilty Of, Is Done By Us, As Individuals, In Private.

I Hope That One Or Two Immortal Lyrics Will Come Out Of All This Tumbling Around.

Hate Does Not Present Many Choices; If Hate Is Your Solution, You Are Fairly Certain To Hate All Phemonena With Equal Joy And Intensity, Without Troubling To Drag Into Prominence Any One Feature From The Loathsome Whole.

Song, Like A Wing, Tears Through My Breast, My Side, And Madness Chooses Out My Voice Again, Again.

True Revolutions In Art Restore More Than They Destroy.