I'll Lie Here And Learn How, Over

Perhaps This Very Instant Is Your Time.

I Cannot Believe That The Inscrutable Universe Turns On An Axis Of Suffering; Surely The Strange Beauty Of The World Must Somewhere Rest On Pure Joy!

Up From The Bronze, I Saw Water Without A Flaw Rush To Its Rest In Air Reach To Its Rest, And Fall.

The Intellectual Is A Middle-class Product; If He Is Not Born Into The Class He Must Soon Insert Himself Into It, In Order To Exist. He Is The Fine Nervous Flower Of The Bourgeoisie.

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.