The Purpose Of Art Is

Her Profession's Her Religion, Her Sin Is Lifelessness.

Every Writer At The New Yorker Is Smarter Than Me.

My Senses Have Been Stripped, My Hands Can't Feel To Grip, My Toes To Numb To Step, Wait Only For My Boot Heels To Be Wandering.

You Don't Count The Dead, When God's On Your Side.

May Your Heart Always Be Joyful. May Your Song Always Be Sung.