I Could Write For Hours On The

We Had Been Hopelessly Labouring To Plough Waste Lands; To Make Nationality Grow In A Place Full Of The Certainty Of God… Among The Tribes Our Creed Could Be Only Like The Desert Grass – A Beautiful Swift Seeming Of Spring; Which, After A Day’s Heat, Fell Dusty.

I Could Write For Hours On The Lustfulness Of Moving Swiftly.

There Is An Ideal Standard Somewhere And Only That Matters And I Cannot Find It. Hence The Aimlessness.

Isn't It True That The Fault Of Birth Rests Somewhat On The Child? I Believe It's We Who Led Our Parents On To Bear Us, And It's Our Unborn Children Who Make Our Flesh Itch.

A Skittish Motorbike With A Touch Of Blood In It Is Better Than All The Riding Animals On Earth, Because Of Its Logical Extension Of Our Faculties, And The Hint, The Provocation, To Excess Conferred By Its Honeyed Untiring Smoothness.