Minds Will Wander Even During The Last

Old Age: I Fall Asleep During The Funerals Of My Friends.

With Every Physical Pain, My Moral Fibre Unravels A Little.

Posterity--the Forlorn Child Of Nineteenth Century Optimism--grows Ever Harder To Conceive.

When Disaster Waves, I Try Not To Wave Back.

The Sentimental Want To Be Thrilled By Everything.