There is nothing beginning nor end to the imagination but it delights in its own seasons reversing the usual order at will.

You have the chicken, the hen, and the rooster. The chicken goes with the hen So who is having sex with the rooster?

That which is possible is inevitable.

Death will be too late to bring us aid.

THESE are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night and the heart plunges lower than night.

My surface is myself. Under which to witness, youth is buried. Roots? Everybody has roots.

What can any of us do with his talent but try to develop his vision, so that through frequent failures we may learn better what we have missed in the past.