The Fog Comes On Little

I Have In Later Years Taken To Euclid, Whitehead, Bertrand Russell, In An Elemental Way.

Revolt And Terror Pay A Price. Order And Law Have A Cost.

There Will Be A Rusty Gun On The Wall, Sweetheart, The Rifle Grooves Curling With Flakes Of Rust. A Spider Will Make A Silver String Nest In The Darkest, Warmest Corner Of It.

When One Has The Right Swing And Enthusiasm, Selling Is Not Unlike Hunting, A Veritable Sport. To Scare Up The Game By Preliminary Talk And To Know How Long To Follow It, To Lose Your Gain Through Poorly Directed Argument, To Hang On To Game That Finally Eludes, To Boldly Confront, To Quickly Circle Around, To Keep On The Trail, Tireless And Keen, Till You Have Bagged Some Orders, There Is Some Satisfaction In Returning At Night, Tired Of The Trail, But Proud Of The Days Work Done.

A Liar Is A Liar And Lives On The Lies He Tells And Dies In A Life Of Lies.