All I Want To Do Is Sit

The Day You Die Is Just Like Any Other, Only Shorter.

Decidedly It Will Never Have Been Given To Me To Finish Anything, Except Perhaps Breathing. One Must Not Be Greedy.

I Had Seen Faces In Photographs I Might Have Found Beautiful Had I Known Even Vaguely In What Beauty Was Supposed To Consist. And My Father's Face, On His Death-bolster, Had Seemed To Hint At Some Form Of Aesthetics Relevant To Man. But The Faces Of The Living, All Grimace And Flush, Can They Be Described As Objects?

What Do I Know Of Man's Destiny? I Could Tell You More About Radishes.

So All Things Limp Together For The Only Possible.