Poets Are The Mad Midwives To Reality.

The Pack Of Media Brayed And Bellowed Outside The House For Seven Weeks. Sol Realized Then What He Had Known And Forgotten About Very Small Communities: They Were Frequently Annoying, Always Parochial, Sometimes Prying On A One-to-one Level, But Never Had They Subscribed To The Vicious Legacy Of The So-called "public's Right To Know".

It Occurs To Me That Our Survival May Depend Upon Our Talking To One Another.

Evolution Brings Human Beings. Human Beings, Through A Long And Painful Process, Bring Humanity.

Merely To Live Without A Pain Is Little Gladness, Little Gain, Ah, Welcome Joy Tho' Mixt With Grief-- The Thorn-set Flower That Crowns The Leaf.

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