I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.

Why are there men and women that while they are nigh me the sunlight expands my blood? Why when they leave me do my pennants of joy sink flat and lank?

I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain'd, I stand and look at them long and long.

There is that indescribable freshness and unconsciousness about an illiterate person that humbles and mocks the power of the noblest expressive genius.

O the joy of my spirit - it is uncaged - it darts like lightning!

Do anything, but let it produce joy.

I dote on myself. There is a lot of me and all so luscious.