Mobs Have Passions, Not Brains.

Words Are The Only Bullets In Truth's Bandolier. And Poets Are The Snipers.

The Beauty Of That June Day Was Almost Staggering. After The Wet Spring, Everything That Could Turn Green Had Outdone Itself In Greenness And Everything That Could Even Dream Of Blooming Or Blossoming Was In Bloom And Blossom. The Sunlight Was A Benediction. The Breezes Were So Caressingly Soft And Intimate On The Skin As To Be Embarrassing.

Mystery. The Strangeness Of Place So Necessary To Some Creative Spirits. A Perfect Mixture Of The Classical Utopia And The Pagan Mystery.

In The End--when All Else Is Dust--loyalty To Those We Love Is All We Can Carry With Us To The Grave. Faith--true Faith--was Trusting In That Love.

Want To Talk About Shakespeare's Sonnets?" Asked Orphu Of Io. Are You Shitting Me?" The Moravecs Loved The Ancient Human Colloquial Phrases, The More Scatological The Better. Yes," Said Orphu. "i Am Most Definitely Shitting You, My Friend.