Life Is, Of Course, Terrible.

There Is A Satisfactory Boniness About Grammar Which The Flesh Of Sheer Vocabulary Requires Before It Can Become A Vertebrate And Walk The Earth.

Immortality Makes Sense Only When The Individual Soul Can Be Thought Of As Merging Into A Great Collective Mush Of Sainthood. If We Take Anything With Us Into The Next World, It Is Not What Survives In The Memories Of Our Relicts.

Suddenly, I Viddied What I Had To Do, And What I Had Wanted To Do, And That Was To Do Myself In; To Snuff It, To Blast Off For Ever Out Of This Wicked, Cruel World. One Moment Of Pain Perhaps And, Then, Sleep Forever, And Ever And Ever.

This Truth May Be Handled Either Sinfully Or Profitably; Sinfully As When It Is Treated On Only To Satisfy Curiosity, And To Keep Up A Mere Barren Speculative Dispute.... This Point Of Election... Is Not To Be Agitated In A Verbal And Contentious Way, But In A Saving Way, To Make Us Tremble And To Set Us Upon A More Diligent And Close Striving With God In Prayer, And All Other Duties.

I Chart A Little First-list Of Names, Rough Synopsis Of Chapters, And So On. But One Daren't Overplan; So Many Things Are Generated By The Sheer Act Of Writing.