See The Moon? It Hates Us.

--why Are We Fighting Them? --they're Mad. We're Sane. --how Do We Know? --that We're Sane? --yes. --am I Sane? --to All Appearances. --and You, Do You Consider Yourself Sane? --i Do. --well, There You Have It. --but Don't They Also Consider Themselves Sane? --i Think They Know. Deep Down. That They're Not Sane. --how Must That Make Them Feel? --terrible, I Should Think. They Must Fight Ever More Fiercely, In Order To Deny What They Know To Be True. That They Are Not Sane.

I Think Writers Like Old Cities And Are Made Very Nervous By New Cities.

Some People', Miss R. Said,'run To Conceits Or Wisdom But I Hold To The Hard, Brown, Nutlike Word. I Might Point Out That There Is Enough Aesthetic Excitement Here To Satisfy Anyone But A Damned Fool.

The Self Cannot Be Escaped, But It Can Be, With Ingenuity And Hard Work, Distracted.

I Keep Wondering If, Say, There Is Intelligent Life On Other Planets, The Scientists Argue That Something Like Two Percent Of The Other Planets Have The Conditions, The Physical Conditions, To Support Life In The Way It Happened Here, Did Christ Visit Each And Every Planet, Go Through The Same Routine, The Agony In The Garden, The Crucifixion, And So On.