Habit Is A Great Deadener.

How Time Flies When One Has Fun!

I Had Seen Faces In Photographs I Might Have Found Beautiful Had I Known Even Vaguely In What Beauty Was Supposed To Consist. And My Father's Face, On His Death-bolster, Had Seemed To Hint At Some Form Of Aesthetics Relevant To Man. But The Faces Of The Living, All Grimace And Flush, Can They Be Described As Objects?

To Find A Form That Accommodates The Shape Of The Mess, That Is The Task Of The Artist Now.

That's What Hell Must Be Like, Small Chat To The Babbling Of Lethe About The Good Old Days When We Wished We Were Dead.

There Is No Use Indicting Words, They Are No Shoddier Than What They Peddle.