If I Rest, If I Think Inward,

Go Out And Do Something. It Isn’t Your Room That’s A Prison, It’s Yourself.

Is Anyone Anywhere Happy?

What Did My Fingers Do Before They Held Him? What Did My Heart Do, With Its Love?

And You Grit Your Teeth, Despising Yourself For Your Tremulous Sensitivity, And Wondering How Human Beings Can Suffer Their Individualities To Be Mercilessly Crushed Under A Machinelike Dictatorship, Be It Of Industry, State Or Organization, All Their Lives Long.

I May Never Be Happy, But Tonight I Am Content.