We Live In The Flicker -- May

Fiction Is History, Human History, Or It Is Nothing.

The Old River In Its Broad Reach Rested Unruffled At The Decline Of Day, After Ages Of Good Service Done To The Race That Peopled Its Banks, Spread Out In The Tranquil Dignity Of A Waterway Leading To The Uttermost Ends Of The Earth.

Let A Fool Be Made Serviceable According To His Folly.

Who Would Care To Question The Ground Of Forgiveness Or Compassion.

Sometimes It Takes All My Resolution And Power Of Self-control To Refrain From Butting My Head Against The Wall. I Want To Howl And Foam At The Mouth But I Daren't.