We Love But Once, For Once Only

When I Contemplate The Accumulation Of Guilt And Remorse Which, Like A Garbage-can, I Carry Through Life, And Which Is Fed Not Only By The Lightest Action But By The Most Harmless Pleasure, I Feel Man To Be Of All Living Things The Most Biologically Incompetent And Ill-organized. Why Has He Acquired A Seventy Years Life-span Only To Poison It Incurably By The Mere Being Of Himself? Why Has He Thrown Conscience, Like A Dead Rat, To Putrefy In The Well?

Always Be Nice To Those Younger Than You, Because They Are The Ones Who Will Be Writing About You.

What Grape To Keep Its Place In The Sun, Taught Our Ancestors To Make Wine?

When Even Despair Ceases To Serve Any Creative Purpose, Then Surely We Are Justified In Suicide.

Like The Bee Its Sting, The Promiscuous Leave Behind Them In Each Encounter Something Of Themselves By Which They Are Made To Suffer.