Every Heart Has Its Graveyard.

I Have The Nerve To Walk My Own Way, However Hard, In My Search For Reality, Rather Than Climb Upon The Rattling Wagon Of Wishful Illusions.

He Was The Average Mortal. It Troubled Him To Get Used To The World One Way And Then Suddenly Have It Turn Different.

I Have Been In Sorrow's Kitchen And Licked Out All The Pots. Then I Have Stood On The Peaky Mountain Wrapped In Rainbows, With A Harp And Sword In My Hands.

I Am Not Tragically Colored. There Is No Great Sorrow Dammed Up In My Soul, Nor Lurking Behind My Eyes. I Do Not Mind At All. I Do Not Belong To The Sobbing School Of Negrohood Who Hold That Nature Somehow Has Given Them A Lowdown Dirty Deal And Whose Feelings Are All Hurt About It. Even In The Helter-skelter Skirmish That Is My Life, I Have Seen That The World Is To The Strong Regardless Of A Little Pigmentation More Or Less. No, I Do Not Weep At The World—i Am Too Busy Sharpening My Oyster Knife.

The Monstropolous Beast Had Left His Bed. The Two Hundred Miles A Hour Wind Had Loosed His Chains. He Seized Hold Of His Dikes And Ran Forward Until He Met The Quarters; Uprooted Them Like Grass And Rushed On After His Supposed-to-be Conquerors, Rolling The Dikes, Rolling The Houses, Rolling The People In The Houses Along With Other Timbers. The Sea Was Walking The Earth With A Heavy Heel.