Forever Is Made Up Of Nows.

Is Bliss Then, Such Abyss, I Must Not Put My Foot Amiss For Fear I Spoil My Shoe? I'd Rather Suit My Foot Than Save My Boot -- For Yet To Buy Another Pair Is Possible, At Any Store -- But Bliss, Is Sold Just Once. The Patent Lost None Buy It Any More --

A Word Is Dead When It Is Said, Some Say. I Say It Just Begins To Live That Day.

The Words The Happy Say Are Paltry Melody But Those The Silent Feel Are Beautiful-.

Why Should We Censure Othello When The Criterion Lover Says, "thou Shalt Have No Other Gods Before Me"?

Mirth Is The Mail Of Anguish --