I am a phoenix who runs after arsonists.
One thought-murder a day keeps the psychiatrist away.
It seems, after all that there are no nonpeculiar people.
No realistic, sane person goes around Chicago without protection.
It's no disgrace to be a private, you know. Socrates was a plain foot soldier, a hoplite.
Is love supposed to ruin you? It seems to me you shouldn't destroy yourself out of life for purposes of love--or what good is it?