We All Are Born Mad.

All I Know Is What The Words Know, And Dead Things, And That Makes A Handsome Little Sum, With A Beginning And A Middle And An End, As In The Well-built Phrase And The Long Sonata Of The Dead.

We Are All Born; Some Remain So.

All I Want To Do Is Sit On My Ass And Fart And Think Of Dante.

Watt Had Watched People Smile And Thought He Understood How It Was Done.

There's Man All Over For You, Blaming On His Boots The Fault Of His Feet.