To Make One, There Must Be Two.

All I Have Is A Voice.

Herds Of Reindeer Move Across Miles And Miles Of Golden Moss

In The End, Art Is Small Beer. The Really Serious Things Are Earning One's Living So As Not To Be A Parasite And Loving One's Neighbor.

We Who Must Die Demand A Miracle. How Could The Eternal Do A Temporal Act, The Infinite Become A Finite Fact? Nothing Can Save Us That Is Possible: We Who Must Die Demand A Miracle.

Routine, In An Intelligent Man, Is A Sign Of Ambition.