All Literature Is Gossip.

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

The Wind Is Us-- It Gathers And Remembers All Our Voices, Then Sends Them Talking And Telling Through The Leaves And The Fields.

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.

I Couldn't Understand A Sense Of Unease That Multiplied Until I Could Hear My Heart Beating.

There’s Got To Be Something Wrong With Us. To Do What We Did.