notice the convulsed orange inch of moon perching on this silver minute of evening

It takes three to make a child.

Always the beautiful answer who asks a more beautiful question.

At least the Pilgrim Fathers used to shoot Indians: the Pilgrim Children merely punch time clocks.

Lessons hide in his wrinkles. Bells ding in the oldness of eyes. Did he by, any chance, tell children that there are such monstrous things as peace and goodwill...a corrupter of youth no doubt.

when man determined to destroy himself he picked the was of shall and finding only why smashed it into because.

Who knows if the moon's / a balloon, coming out of a keen city / in the sky - filled with pretty people?