How Sick One Gets Of Being "good,"

Notwithstanding The Poverty Of My Outside Experience, I Have Always Had A Significance For Myself, And Every Chance To Stumle Along My Straight And Narrow Little Path, And To Worship At The Feet Of My Deity, And What More Can A Human Soul Ask For?

If I Can Get On To My Sofa And Occupy Myself For Four Hours, At Intervals Through The Day, Scribbling My Notes, And Able To Read The Books That Belong To Me, In That They Clarify The Density, And Shape The Formless Mass Within, Life Seems Inconceivably Rich.

How Fatally The Entire Want Of Humor Cripples The Mind.

The Difficulty About All This Dying, Is That You Can't Tell A Fellow Anything About It, So Where Does The Fun Come In?

Who Would Ever Give Up The Reality Of Dreams For Relative Knowledge?