There Are No Signposts In The Sea.

I Loved You When Love Was Spring, And May, Loved You When Summer Deepened Into June, And Now When Autumn Yellows All The Leaves.

When, And How, And At What Stage Of Our Development Did Spirituality And Our Strange Notions Of Religion Arise? The Need For Worship Which Is Nothing More Than Our Frightened Refuge Into Propitiation Of A Creator We Do Not Understand? A Detective Story, The Supreme Who-done-it, Written In Indecipherable Hieroglyphics, No Rosetta Stone Supplied By The Consummate Mystifier To Tease Us Poor Fumbling Unravellers Of His Plot.

I Cannot Bear That You / Should Think Me Faithful, When I Am Untrue.

Tools Have Their Own Integrity.

It Isn't That I Don't Like Sweet Disorder, But It Has To Be Judiciously Arranged.