The slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull.

What is so real as the cry of a child? A rabbit's cry may be wilder But it has no soul.

It was my first big chance, but here I was, sitting back and letting it run through my fingers like so much water.

I had removed my patent leather shoes after a while, for they foundered badly in the sand. It pleased me to think they would be perched there on the silver log, pointing out to sea, like a sort of soul-compass, after I was dead.

I'm never going to get married." "You're crazy." Buddy brightened. "You'll change your mind." "No. My mind's made up.

But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.

Happy! That is indefinable as far as states of being go.