All Mirrors Are Magical Mirrors,

All My Life, As Down An Abyss Without A Bottom. I Have Been Pouring Van Loads Of Information Into That Vacancy Of Oblivion I Call My Mind.

The World Is Not Unkind, And Reprobates Are Worse Than Their Reputations.

Those Who Set Out To Serve Both God And Mammon Soon Discover That There Isn't A God.

Every Author, However Modest, Keeps A Most Outrageous Vanity Chained Like A Madman In The Padded Cell Of His Breast.

What Shall I Compare It To, This Fantastic Thing I Call My Mind? To A Waste-paper Basket, To A Sieve Choked With Sediment, Or To A Barrel Full Of Floating Froth And Refuse? No, What It Is Really Most Like Is A Spider's Web, Insecurely Hung On Leaves And Twigs, Quivering In Every Wind, And Sprinkled With Dewdrops And Dead Flies. And At Its Centre, Pondering Forever The Problem Of Existence, Sits Motionless The Spider-like And Uncanny Soul.