The Small Wad Of Burning Paper Drew

Borrowed Time And Borrowed World And Borrowed Eyes With Which To Sorrow It.

Any Time You're Throwin Dirt You're Losin Ground.

You Forget What You Want To Remember, And You Remember What You Want To Forget.

Not All Dying Words Are True And This Blessing Is No Less Real For Being Shorn Of Its Ground.

They Rode Like Men Invested With A Purpose Whose Origins Were Antecedent To Them, Like Blood Legatees Of An Order Both Imperative And Remote. For Although Each Man Among Them Was Discrete Unto Himself, Conjoined They Made A Thing That Had Not Been Before And In That Communal Soul Were Wastes Hardly Reckonable More Than Those Whited Regions On Old Maps Where Monsters Do Live And Where There Is Nothing Other Of The Known World Save Conjectural Winds.