The Humble Were The Elect Of God.

Madness. I Did Not Get Myself Born To Die. I Have Better Things To Do.

He Sat By Her, Watching Every Gesture She Made, As If He Would Paint Her Portrait Afterward.

The Humble Were The Elect Of God. Did Not The Priests Teach So, In Their Gemmed, Kingly Robes, From Their Towering Pulpits?

Some Writers, Of Course, Simply Write, As They Feel They Are Driven To Do, By Outer/inner Inspirations. If, After The Work Is Written And, Hopefully, Published, Others Respond -- That Is The Champagne. But We, Or Some Of Us, Don't Write For The Champagne. We Write Because We Write.

Hope Is A Punishable Offense. The Verdict Is Always Death; One More Death Of The Heart.