Be Suspicious Of People Who

If Man Merely Sat Back And Thought About His Impending Termination, And His Terrifying Insignificance And Aloneness In The Cosmos, He Would Surely Go Mad, Or Succumb To A Numbing Sense Of Futility. Why, He Might Ask Himself, Should He Bother To Write A Great Symphony, Or Strive To Make A Living, Or Even To Love Another, When He Is No More Than A Momentary Microbe On A Dust Mote Whirling Through The Unimaginable Immensity Of Space?

All My Life I've Always Spoiled The Things That Meant The Most To Me.

I Used And Abused Drugs And Alcohol. When I Stopped Doing That It Became A Lot Clearer That Life Goes From Inside To Giving As Opposed To Taking And Destroying.

It's A Mistake To Confuse Pity With Love.

You're An Idealist, And I Pity You As I Would The Village Idiot.