All In All, Death Is Something Like

When Men Can Hate Without Risk, Their Stupidity Is Easily Convinced, The Motives Supply Themselves.

To Hell With Reality! I Want To Die In Music, Not In Reason Or In Prose.

For The Poor Of This World, Two Major Ways Of Expiring Are Available: Either By The Absolute Indifference Of Your Fellow-men In Peace-time, Or By The Homicidal Passion Of These Same When War Breaks Out.

In My Room I'd Barely Closed My Eyes When The Blonde From The Movie House Came Along And Sang Her Whole Song Of Sorrow Just For Me. I Helped Her Put Me To Sleep, So To Speak, And Succeeded Pretty Well... I Wasn't Entirely Alone... It's Not Possible To Sleep Alone.

Women Always Have Some Mental Reservation.