I Desire No Future That Will Break

We Are All Of Us Born In Moral Stupidity, Taking The World As An Udder To Feed Our Supreme Selves

So Much Of Our Early Gladness Vanishes Utterly From Our Memory: We Can Never Recall The Joy With Which We Laid Our Heads On Our Mother's Bosom Or Rode On Our Father's Back In Childhood; Doubtless That Joy Is Wrought Up Into Our Nature, As The Sunlight Of Long-past Mornings Is Wrought Up In The Soft Mellowness Of The Apricot; But It Is Gone Forever From Our Imagination, And We Can Only Believe In The Joy Of Childhood.

Her Little Butterfly Soul Fluttered Incessantly Between Memory And Dubious Expectation.

It Is As Useless To Fight Against The Interpretations Of Ignorance As To Whip The Fog.

A Mother's Yearning Feels The Presence Of The Cherished Child Even In The Degraded Man.