Cliches Are Truisms And All

I Wish The Whole World Was Dead Serious About Food Instead Of Silly Rockets And Machines And Explosives Using Everybody's Food Money To Blow Their Heads Off Anyway.

Don't Tell Them Too Much About Your Soul. They're Waiting For Just That.

It Was A Rainy Night. It Was The Myth Of The Rainy Night.

When The Railroad Trains Moaned, And River-winds Blew, Bringing Echoes Through The Vale, It Was As If A Wild Hum Of Voices, The Dear Voices Of Everybody He Had Known, Were Crying: "peter, Peter! Where Are You Going, Peter?" And A Big Soft Gust Of Rain Came Down. He Put Up The Collar Of His Jacket, And Bowed His Head, And Hurried Along.

I Was Suddenly Left With Nothing In My Hands But A Handful Of Crazy Stars.