The bird is gone, and in what meadow does it now sing?

In this dark world where he now dwelt, ugly things and surprising things and once in a long while a tiny wondrous thing spilled out at him constantly; he could count on nothing.

Emigrate or Degenerate.

We do not have an ideal world, such as we would like, where morality is easy because cognition is easy. Where one can do right with no effort because he can detect the obvious.

The silence of the world could not rein back it's greed. Not any longer. Not when it had virtually won.

The hell with the newspapers. Nobody reads the letters to the editor column except the nuts. It's enough to get you down.

I guess that's the story of life: what you most fear never happens, but what you most yearn for never happens either. This is the difference between life and fiction. I suppose it's a good trade-off. But I'm not sure.