One Could Go On Revising A Prose

It Is A Waste Of Time To See People Who Have Only A Social Surface To Show. I Will Make Every Effort To Find Out The Real Person, But If I Can't, Then I Am Upset And Cross. Time Wasted Is Poison.

We Are Never Done With Thinking About Our Parents, I Suppose, And Come To Know Them Better Long After They Are Dead Than We Ever Did When They Were Alive.

Sometimes One Has Simply To Endure A Period Of Depression For What It May Hold Of Illumination If One Can Live Through It, Attentive To What It Exposes Or Demands.

It Is Curious How Any Making Of Order Makes One Feel Mentally Ordered, Ordered Inside.

For To Be Desperate Is To Discover Strength. / We Die Of Comfort And By Conflict Live.