The Horror Of It Is,

Art Is Subject To Arbitrary Fashion.

Each Of Us Have Things And Thoughts And Descriptions Of An Amazing Universe In Our Possession That Kings In The 17th Century Would Have Gone To War To Possess.

People Don't Realize That Molecules Themselves Are Somewhat Hypothetical, And That Their Interactions Are More So, And That The Biological Reactions Are Even More So.

There Is A General Place In Your Brain, I Think, Reserved For Melancholy Of Relationships Past. It Grows And Prospers As Life Progresses, Forcing You Finally, Against Your Better Judgment, To Listen To Country Music.

Science Grows Like A Weed Every Year.