My life is unjust, but I can strive for justice. My life is unkind, but I can vote for kindness.
Oh, I have walked in Kansas Through many a harvest field, And piled the sheaves of glory there And down the wild rows reeled: Each sheaf a little yellow sun, A heap of hot-rayed gold; Each binder like Creation's hand To mold suns, as of old.
Authors and uncaptured criminals are the only people free from routine.
Life is a loom, weaving illusion.
They tried to get me-I got them first! (suicide note)
The crooning turns to a sunrise singing.