The Act Of Love Strongly Resembles Torture

There Is No Dream Of Love, However Ideal It May Be, Which Does Not End Up With A Fat, Greedy Baby Hanging From The Breast.

Nothing Is As Tedious As The Limping Days, When Snowdrifts Yearly Cover All The Ways, And Ennui, Sour Fruit Of Incurious Gloom, Assumes Control Of Fate’s Immortal Loom

The Immense Appetite We Have For Biography Comes From A Deep-seated Sense Of Equality.

We Revel In The Laxness Of The Path We Take.

What Could Be More Simple And More Complex, More Obvious And More Profound Than A Portrait.