I Like Films, Or Some Films, And

What Is Any Of This To Us? Time Is Endless And Ours. Love And Death Are Only The Games We Play In It.

Men Are Not The Causers Of History. History Itself, By A Pressure Of Events, Causes Men To Resort To Particular Actions.

No One Is Ever Ordinary.

I Never Know Where I Am Going, Though. That Is Part Of What Makes It So Wonderful. And After All, Who Does?

How Massively The Mountains Stand, While Low To The Ground The Sand Blows. The Sand Blows On And On. And Then There Are No Mountains, None At All, The Sand Has Kissed And Whispered Them Away. And Still, The Sand Blows On.