In Every Trade Save War Men Of

You Either Stick Or You Quit. And I Wouldnt Quit You I Dont Care What You Done.

The Judge Placed His Hands On The Ground. He Looked At His Inquisitor. This Is My Claim, He Said. And Yet Everywhere Upon It Are Pockets Of Autonomous Life. Autonomous. In Order For It To Be Mine Nothing Must Be Permitted To Occur Upon It Save By My Dispensation.

Keep A Little Fire Burning; However Small, However Hidden.

Remember Her Hair In The Morning Before It Was Pinned, Black, Rampant, Savage With Loveliness. As If She Slept In Perpetual Storm.

For Even If You Should Have Stood Your Ground, He Said, Yet What Ground Was It?