Out Of Nothing Can Come, And Nothing

The Stomach Is The Teacher Of The Arts And The Dispenser Of Invention.

Our Life Is Our Own To-day, To-morrow You Will Be Dust, A Shade, And A Tale That Is Told. Live Mindful Of Death; The Hour Flies.

We Consume Our Tomorrows Fretting About Our Yesterdays.

He Conquers Who Endures.

But When To-morrow Comes, Yesterday's Morrow Will Have Been Already Spent: And Lo! A Fresh Morrow Will Be For Ever Making Away With Our Years, Each Just Beyond Our Grasp.