Let Me Live Deep While I Live;

Barbarism Is The Natural State Of Mankind.

Money And Muscle, That's What I Want; To Be Able To Do Any Damned Thing I Want And Get Away With It. Money Won't Do That Altogether, Because If A Man Is A Weakling, All The Money In The World Won't Enable Him To Soak An Enemy Himself; On The Other Hand, Unless He Has Money He May Not Be Able To Get Away With It.

It Was No Ape, Neither Was It A Man. It Was Some Shambling Horror Spawned In The Mysterious, Nameless Jungles Of The South, Where Strange Life Teemed In The Reeking Rot Without The Dominance Of Man, And Drums Thundered In Temples That Had Never Known The Tread Of A Human Foot.

Life Is But A Web Spun Of Ghosts And Dreams And Illusions.

Musings The Little Poets Sing Of Little Things: Hope, Cheer, And Faith, Small Queens And Puppet Kings; Lovers Who Kissed And Then Were Made As One, And Modest Flowers Waving In The Sun. The Mighty Poets Write In Blood And Tears And Agony That, Flame-like, Bites And Sears. They Reach Their Mad Blind Hands Into The Night, To Plumb Abysses Dead To Human Sight; To Drag From Gulfs Where Lunacy Lies Curled, Mad, Monstrous Nightmare Shapes To Blast The World. [click On The Thumbnail By Jack "king" Kirby]