When One Is Writing A

It Wouldn't Make For Sanity Would It, Living With The Devil.

A Bad Workman Blames His Tools.

You Had To Endure Something Yourself Before It Touched You.

Time Will Mellow It, Make It A Moment For Laughter. But Now It Was Not Funny, Now I Did Not Laugh. It Was Not The Future, It Was The Present. It Was Too Vivid And Too Real.

They Are Not Brave, The Days When We Are Twenty-one. They Are Full Of Little Cowardices, Little Fears Without Foundation, And One Is So Easily Bruised, So Swiftly Wounded, One Falls To The First Barbed Word. To-day, Wrapped In The Complacent Armour Of Approaching Middle Age, The Infinitesimal Pricks Of Day By Day Brush One But Lightly And Are Soon Forgotten, But Then—how A Careless Word Would Linger, Becoming A Fiery Stigma, And How A Look, A Glance Over A Shoulder, Branded Themselves As Things Eternal.