The psychoanalysts pick our dreams as if they were our pockets.
The streets of Vienna are paved with culture, the streets of other cities with asphalt.
Progress, under whose feet the grass mourns and the forest turns into paper from which newspaper plants grow, has subordinated the purpose of life to the means of subsistence and turned us into the nuts and bolts for our tools.
Keep your passions in check, but beware of giving your reason free rein.
Solitude would be ideal if you could pick the people to avoid.
Penalties serve to deter those who are not inclined to commit any crimes.