What Is Love? The Need Of Coming

I Have More Memories Than If I Were A Thousand Years Old.

Genius Is No More Than Childhood Recaptured At Will, Childhood Equipped Now With Man's Physical Means To Express Itself, And With The Analytical Mind That Enables It To Bring Order Into The Sum Of Experience, Involuntarily Amassed.

Finer Than Any Sand Are Dusts Of Gold That Gleam, Vague Starpoints, In The Mystic Iris Of Their Eyes.

A Study Of The Great Malady; Horror Of Home.

It Would Perhaps Be Nice To Be Alternately The Victim And The Executioner.