Oh, Time Betrays Us. Time Is The

We Each Live In A Private, Distorted, Individual World - Stars Turning In Space, Warmed For A Moment By Each Other's Light, Then Lost In Infinite Distance.

I Can't Think Why I Was Cursed With This Inordinate Desire To Write, If The High Gods Weren't Going To Give Me Some More Adquate Means Of Expressing Myself Than That Which My Present Pedestrian Prose Affords.

Youth Knows No Remedy For Grief But Death.

All Adventuring Is Rash, And All Innovations Dangerous. But Not Nearly So Dangerous As Stagnation And Dry Rot. From Grooves, Cliques, Clichés And Resignation - Good Lord Deliver Us!

I Would, If I Could, Always Feed To Music. The Singularly Graceless Action Of Thus Filling One's Body With Roots And Dead Animals And Powdered Grain Is Given Some Significance Then. One Can Perform As A Ritual What One Is Shamed To Do As A Utilitarian Action.