There Are Times When You

I Don't Know What A Man Is. Only That Every Man Has His Price.

He Who Is Still Laughing Is He Who Hasn't Heard The Terrible News.

When Crimes Begin To Pile Up They Become Invisible. When Sufferings Become Unendurable The Cries Are No Longer Heard. The Cries, Too, Fall Like Rain In Summer.

With Drooping Shoulders The Majority Sit Hunched, Their Foreheads Furrowed Like Stony Ground That Has Been Repeatedly Ploughed-up To No Purpose.

Something Ignoble, Loathsome, Undignified Attends All Associations Between People And Has Been Transferred To All Objects, Dwelling, Tools, Even The Landscape Itself.