Verbs. All Of Them Tiring.

We Mark Some Days As Fair, Some As Foul, Because We Do Not See That The Character Of Every Day As Identical

What I'm Certain I Don't Want Is To Find Myself Someday In A New Century, An Old Bitter Woman Looking Back, Wishing That Right Now I'd Had More Nerve.

He Was Himself A Case In Point, And Perhaps Not A Rare One, For His Spirit, It Seemed, Had Been Burned Out Of Him But He Was Yet Walking.

Needing And Getting Don’t Seem Likely To Match Up Any Time Soon... What Needs Doing Is Mine To Do.

One Thing He Discovered With A Great Deal Of Astonishment Was That Music Held For Him More Then Just Pleasure. There Was Meat To It. The Grouping Of Sounds, Their Forms In The Air As They Rang Out And Faded, Said Something Comforting To Him About The Rule Of Creation. What The Music Said Was That There Is A Right Way For Things To Be Ordered So That Life Might Not Always Be Just Tangle And Drift, But Have A Shape, An Aim. It Was A Powerful Argument That Life Did Not Just Happen.