We Consume Our Tomorrows Fretting

Out Of Nothing Can Come, And Nothing Can Become Nothing.

But When To-morrow Comes, Yesterday's Morrow Will Have Been Already Spent: And Lo! A Fresh Morrow Will Be For Ever Making Away With Our Years, Each Just Beyond Our Grasp.

It Is Pleasing To Be Pointed At With The Finger And To Have It Said, "there Goes The Man." [lat., At Pulchrum Est Digito Monstrari Et Dicier His Est.]

Please Not Thyself The Flattering Crowd To Hear; 'tis Fulsome Stuff, To Please Thy Itching Ear. Survey Thy Soul, Not What Thou Does Appear, But What Thou Art.

Check Disease In Its Approach.