Give Me A Bed And A Book

We Should Nourish Our Souls On The Dew Of Poesy, And Manure Them As Well.

If It's To Be, It's Up To Me.

What Joy Can The Years Bring Half So Sweet As The Unhappiness They've Taken Away?

It Is The Dread Of Something Happening, Something Unknown And Dreadful, That Makes Us Do Anything To Keep The Flicker Of Talk From Dying Out.

It Is Through The Cracks In Our Brains That Ecstasy Creeps In.