Justness Exists, Even If Few People Exist

If A Person Can Build A Fence Around Himself, He Is Bound To Do It.

A Day Without A Dark Cloud. Almost A Happy Day. There Were Three Thousand Six Hundred And Fifty-three Days Like That In His Stretch. From The First Clang Of The Rail To The Last Clang Of The Rail. Three Thousand Six Hundred And Fifty-three Days. The Three Extra Days Were For Leap Years.

You Get No Thanks From Your Belly-it Always Forgets What You've Just Done For It And Comes Begging Again The Next Day.

This Deliberately Nurtured Hatred Then Spreads To All That Is Alive, To Life Itself, To The World With Its Colors, Sounds, And Shapes, To The Human Body. The Embittered Art Of The Twentieth Century Is Perishing As A Result Of This Ugly Hate, For Art Is Fruitless Without Love. In The East Art Has Collapsed Because It Has Been Knocked Down And Trampled Upon, But In The West The Fall Has Been Voluntary, A Decline Into A Contrived And Pretentious Quest Where The Artist, Instead Of Attempting To Reveal The Divine Plan, Tries To Put Himself In The Place Of God.

In All Probability An Outburst Of Desperation In The Midst Of General Submissiveness Will Always Help.