I Suspect The Fault...is In Me: That

The Camera Is Just A Machine, Which Records With Impressive And As A Rule Very Cruel Faithfulness.

I Prefer A Little Free Speech To No Free Speech At All; But How Many Have Free Speech Or The Chance Or The Mind For It; And Is Not Free Speech Here As Elsewhere Clamped Down On In Ratio Of Its Freedom And Danger?

I Suspect The Fault...is In Me: That I Hate Any Job On Earth, As A Job And A Hindrance And A Semi-suicide.

How Far We All Come. How Far We All Come Away From Ourselves. So Far, So Much Between, You Can Never Go Home Again. You Can Go Home, It's Good To Go Home, But You Never Really Get All The Way Home Again In Your Life. ... Whatever It Was And However Good It Was, It Wasn't What You Once Had Been, And Had Lost, And Could Never Have Again, And Once In A While, Once In A Long Time, You Remembered, And Knew How Far You Were Away, And It Hit You Hard Enough, That Little While It Lasted, To Break Your Heart.

And Somewhat As In Blind Night, On A Mild Sea, A Sailor May Be Made Aware Of An Iceberg, Fanged And Mortal, Bearing Invisibly Near, By The Unwarned Charm Of Its Breath, Nothingness Now Revealed Itself: That Permanent Night Upon Which The Stars In Their Expiring Generations Are Less Than The Glinting Of Gnats, And Nebulae, More Trivial Than Winter Breath; That Darkness In Which Eternity Lies Bent And Pale, A Dead Snake In A Jar, And Infinity Is The Sparkling Of A Wren Blown Out To Sea; That Inconceivable Chasm Of Invulnerable Silence In Which Cataclysms Of Galaxies Rave Mute As Amber.