A Prose That Is Altogether Alive Demands

That Is Not It At All, That Is Not What I Meant, At All.

Of Lovers Whose Bodies Smell Of Each Other Who Think The Same Thoughts Without Need Of Speech

We Fight For Lost Causes Because We Know That Our Defeat And Dismay May Be The Preface To Our Successors' Victory, Though That Victory Itself Will Be Temporary; We Fight Rather To Keep Something Alive Than In The Expectation That Anything Will Triumph.

Sand. Everywhere. In The Bed, In The Shower, All Over The Floor. Grrrrr.

No Artist Produces Great Art By A Deliberate Attempt To Express His Own Personality.