The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter.

His Own Life Seemed So Solitary, A Fragile Column Supporting Nothing Amidst The Wreckage Of The Years.

It Was Like She Was Cheated. Only Nobody Had Cheated Her. So There Was Nobody To Take It Out On. However, Just The Same She Had That Feeling. Cheated.

After The First Establishment Of Identity There Comes The Imperative Need To Lose This New-found Sense Of Separateness And To Belong To Something Larger And More Powerful Than The Weak, Lonely Self. The Sense Of Moral Isolation Is Intolerable To Us.

It Was Better To Be In A Jail Where You Could Bang The Walls Than In A Jail You Could Not See.

A Most Mediocre Person Can Be The Object Of A Love Which Is Wild, Extravagant, And Beautiful As The Poison Lillies Of The Swamp.