I Speak My Own Sins; I Cannot

Look, We're All The Same; A Man Is A Fourteen-room House - In The Bedroom He's Asleep With His Intelligent Wife, In The Living-room He's Rolling Around With Some Bare Ass Girl, In The Library He's Paying His Taxes, In The Yard He's Raising Tomatoes And In The Cellar He's Making A Bomb To Blow It All Up.

Cleave To No Faith When Faith Brings Blood.

Proctor, His Mind Wild, Breathless: I Say--i Say--god Is Dead!

Everything We Are Is At Every Moment Alive In Us.

Immortality Is Like Trying To Carve Your Initials In A Block Of Ice In The Middle Of July.