A Work Of Art Is One Of

All Artists Are Two-headed Calves.

I Hated Hemingway. I Liked Faulkner But He Was A Bore.

But It's Sunday, Mr. Bell. Clocks Are Slow On Sundays.

You're Wonderful. Unique. I Love You.

The Brain May Take Advice, But Not The Heart, And Love Having No Geography, Knows No Boundaries: Weight And Sink It Deep, No Matter, It Will Rise And Find The Surface: And Why Not? Any Love Is Natural And Beautiful That Lies Within A Person's Nature; Only Hypocrites Would Hold A Man Responsible For What He Loves, Emotional Illiterates And Those Of Righteous Envy, Who, In Their Agitated Concern, Mistake So Frequently The Arrow Pointing To Heaven For The One That Leads To Hell.