The Past Is Ignorant Of The Present.

Funerals Prove That Someone Is Really Gone.

The Harp Is An Insipid Instrument--no Good For Dancing, Feasting, Or Marching, Only For Sitting Primly In A Parlor Or On A Cloud.

Alone, I Am Drunk On My Thoughts; In Company, I Am Sober Again.

Literary Tradition Is Full Of Lies About Poverty-the Jolly Beggar, The Poor But Happy Milkmaid, The Wholesome Diet Of Porridge, Etc.

A Moratorium On Opportunities, Please. I Need To Recover From The Last One.