Hell goes round and round. In shape it is circular, and by nature it is interminable, repetitive, and nearly unbearable.

The dusk was performing its customary intransitive operation of "gathering".

I am completely half afraid to think.

What you think is the point is not the point at all but only the beginning of the sharpness.

A wise old owl once lived in a wood, the more he heard the less he said, the less he said the more he heard, let's emulate that wise old bird.

When things go wrong and will not come right, Though you do the best you can, When life looks black as the hour of night, A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.

The continual cracking of your feet on the road makes a certain quantity of road come up into you. When a man dies they say he returns to clay but too much walking fills you up with clay far sooner (or buries bits of you along the road) and brings your death half-way to meet you. It is not easy to know what is the best way to move yourself from one place to another.