All Artists Are Two-headed Calves.

...there Was A Blond Misty Boy Sitting Beside Me, And He Looked At Me, And I At Him, And We Were Not Strangers: Our Hands Moved Towards Each Other To Embrace. I Never Heard His Voice, For We Did Not Speak; It Is A Shame, I Should So Like The Memory Of It. Loneliness, Like Fever, Thrives On Night, But There With Him Light Broke, Breaking In The Trees Like Birdsong, And When Sunrise Came, He Loosened His Fingers From Mine, And Walked Away, That Misty Boy, My Friend.

Failure Is The Condiment That Gives Success Its Flavor.

Sometimes When I Think How Good My Book Can Be, I Can Hardly Breathe.

Love Is A Chain Of Love As Nature Is A Chain Of Life.

I'm One Of The World's Greatest Pencil Sharpeners.