Though Life Is Very Glorious, It Is

Faith, To My Mind, Is A Stiffening Process, A Sort Of Mental Starch.

The Sun Was Already Declining And Each Of The Trees Held A Premonition Of Night.

It Is Impossible To Foretell The Future With Any Degree Of Accuracy, That It Is Impossible To Rehearse Life. A Fault In The Scenery, A Face In The Audience, An Interruption Of The Audience On To The Stage, And All Our Carefully Planned Gesture Mean Nothing, Or Mean Too Much.

He Doesn't Want You To Be Real, And To Think And To Live. He Doesn't Love You. But I Love You. I Want You To Have Your Own Thoughts And Ideas And Feelings, Even When I Hold You In My Arms.

It Is My Fate And Perhaps My Temperament To Sign Agreements With Fools.