Tired, Tired With Nothing, Tired With Everything,

Eighteen Might Look At Thirty-four Through A Rising Mist Of Adolescence, But Twenty-two Would See Thirty-eight With Discerning Clarity.

Never Miss A Party...good For The Nerves--like Celery.

At Eighteen Our Convictions Are Hills From Which We Look; At Forty-five They Are Caves In Which We Hide.

Nothing Any Good Isn't Hard.

People Living Alone Get Used To Loneliness.