Even Paranoids Have Real Enemies.

How Could I Think The Brief Years Were Enough To Prove The Reality Of Endless Love?

Each Minute Bursts In The Burning Room,the Great Globe Reels In The Solar Fire,spinning The Trivial And Unique Away.(how All Things Flash! How All Things Flare!)what Am I Now That I Was Then?may Memory Restore Again And Againthe Smallest Color Of The Smallest Day:time Is The School In Which We Learn,time Is The Fire In Which We Burn.

Love Is The Tact Of Every Good, The Only Warmth, The Only Peace.

Time Is The School In Which We Learn, Time Is The Fire In Which We Burn.

All Literature Is An Effort At The Formal Character Of The Epigram.