I'm Not Confused. I'm Just Well Mixed.

You, Of Course, Are A Rose-- But Were Always A Rose.

I Hate The Idea That You Ought To Read The Whole Of Anybody.

And Of Course There Must Be Something Wrong In Wanting To Silence Any Song.

One Of The Lies Would Make It Out That Nothing Ever Presents Itself Before Us Twice. Where Would We Be At Last If That Were So? Our Very Life Depends On Everything's Recurring Till We Answer From Within.

'warm In December, Cold In June, You Say?' I Don't Suppose The Water's Changed At All. You And I Know Enough To Know It's Warm Compared With Cold, And Cold Compared With Warm. But All The Fun's In How You Say A Thing.