There Is A Diabolical Streak

Wherever He Goes, Whatever He Does, He Will Always See That Word: Murder—immortally Inscribed Upon The Pediment Of That Vast Slaughterhouse—humanity.

The Poor Are The Human Manure In Which Grow The Harvests Of Life, The Harvests Of Joy Which The Rich Reap.

While All Is New, All Is Beautiful. That Is A Well-known Song. Yes, And The Next Day The Air Changes Into Another One Equally Well Known.

Desire Can Attain The Darkest Human Terror And Give An Actual Ideal Of Hell And Its Horror.

Come Now, Don't Make Such A Funeral Face. It Isn't Dying That's Sad; It's Living When You're Not Happy.