The tides are in our veins.
Truly men hate the truth; they'd liefer meet a tiger on the road.
If millions are born millions must die.
Pleasure is the carrot dangled to lead the ass to market; or the precipice.
Imagination, the traitor of the mind, has taken my solitude and slain it.
Death's a fierce meadowlark: but to die having made / Something more equal to the centuries / Than muscle and bone, is mostly to shed weakness.