Peace to the shacks! War on the palaces!
People like us are unhappy in this world and in the next, I guess if we made it to heaven, we'd have to help make it thunder.
The statue of Freedom has not been cast yet, the furnace is hot, we can all still burn our fingers.
There are only Epicureans, either crude or refined; Christ was the most refined.
Revolution is like Saturn, it devours its own children.
How many women does one need to sing the scale of love all the way up and down?