It Is Through The Cracks In Our

Our Names Are Labels, Plainly Printed On The Bottled Essence Of Our Past Behavior.

What Things There Are To Write, If One Could Only Write Them! My Mind Is Full Of Gleaming Thought; Gay Moods And Mysterious, Moth-like Meditations Hover In My Imagination, Fanning Their Painted Wings. But Always The Rarest, Those Streaked With Azure And The Deepest Crimson, Flutter Away Beyond My Reach.

It Is The Dread Of Something Happening, Something Unknown And Dreadful, That Makes Us Do Anything To Keep The Flicker Of Talk From Dying Out.

What Joy Can The Years Bring Half So Sweet As The Unhappiness They've Taken Away?

But Man Is Above All A Social And Political Animal; His Relations With His Fellow Human Beings Form His Most Absorbing And Important Interest.