If You Are Without Impulses, You Are,

Sometimes Peace Looks Like War, You Cannot Tell Them Apart.

The More Facts I Can Have, The Better. I Can Operate Very Nicely Between Them, But I Am Not Very Good At Making Things Up. I Am Not Sure How Ethical It Is.

Truth Can Break The Gates Down, Truth Can Howl In The Street; Unless Truth Is Pleasing, Personable And Easy To Like, She Is Condemned To Stay Whimpering At The Back Door.

He Once Thought It Himself, That He Might Die With Grief: For His Wife, His Daughters, His Sisters, His Father And Master The Cardinal. But Pulse, Obdurate, Keeps Its Rhythm. You Think You Cannot Keep Breathing, But Your Ribcage Has Other Ideas, Rising And Falling, Emitting Sighs. You Must Thrive In Spite Of Yourself; And So That You May Do It, God Takes Out Your Heart Of Flesh, And Gives You A Heart Of Stone.

I Dislike Pastiche; It Attracts Attention To The Language Only.