Home Is Where The Books Are

The Dearest Ambition Of A Slave Is Not Liberty, But To Have A Slave Of His Own.

The Now, That Indivisible Point Which Studs The Length Of Infinite Line Whose Ends Are Nowhere, Is Thine All , The Puny All Thou Callest Thine.

All Faith Is False, All Faith Is True. Truth Is The Shattered Mirror Strown In Myriad Bits, While Each Believes His Little Bit The Whole To Own.

Indeed He Knows Not How To Know Who Knows Not Also How To Un-know.

Cease, Man, To Mourn, To Weep, To Wail; Enjoy Thy Shining Hour Of Sun; We Dance Along Death's Icy Brink, But Is The Dance Less Full Of Fun?