That Desert Of Loneliness And

The Tears Of The World Are A Constant Quantity. For Each One Who Begins To Weep, Somewhere Else Another Stops. The Same Is True Of The Laugh.

Words Are The Clothes Thoughts Wear.

Imagination At Wit's End Spreads Its Sad Wings.

People Are Bloody Ignorant Apes.

They Give Birth Astride Of A Grave, The Light Gleams An Instant, Then It's Night Once More.