Friends Are Ourselves.

What Gnashing Is Not A Comfort, What Gnawing Of The Worm Is Not A Tickling, What Torment Is Not A Marriage Bed To This Damnation, To Be Secluded Eternally, Eternally, Eternally From The Sight Of God?

If I Dream I Have You, I Have You, For All Our Joys Are But Fantastical.

And Now Good Morrow To Our Waking Souls, Which Watch Not One Another Out Of Fear; For Love, All Love Of Other Sights Controls, And Makes One Little Room, An Everywhere. Let Sea-discoverers To New Worlds Have Gone, Let Maps To Other, Worlds On Worlds Have Shown, Let Us Possess One World, Each Hath One, And Is One.

Never Start With Tomorrow To Reach Eternity. Eternity Is Not Being Reached By Small Steps.

Can There Be Worse Sickness, Than To Know That We Are Never Well, Nor Can Be So?