There Are No Answers, Only Choices.

I Never Read To Kill Time. Killing Time Is Like Killing Someone's Wife Or A Child. There Is Nothing More Precious For Me Than Time.

Have It Compose A Poem -- A Poem About A Haircut! But Lofty, Noble, Tragic, Timeless, Full Of Love, Treachery, Retribution, Quiet Heroism In The Face Of Certain Doom! Six Lines, Cleverly Rhymed, And Every Word Beginning With The Letter S!

Practically All Sf Is Trash.

Plentitude, When Too Plentitudinous, Was Worst Than Destitution, For Obviously What Could One Do, If There Was Nothing One Could Not?

Each Civilization May Choose One Of Two Roads To Travel, That Is, Either Fret Itself To Death, Or Pet Itself To Death. And In The Course Of Doing One Or The Other, It Eats Its Way Into The Universe, Turning Cinders And Flinders Of Stars Into Toilet Seats, Pegs, Gears, Cigarette Holders And Pillowcases, And It Does This Because, Unable To Fathom The Universe, It Seeks To Change That Fathomlessness Into Something Fathomable.