He Knew That Conscience Was Chiefly Fear

Rippling, Rippling, Rippling, Like A Flapping Overlapping Of Soft Flames, Soft As Feathers, Running To Points Of Brilliance, Exquisite, Exquisite And Melting Her All Molten Inside.

Only The Flow Matters; Live And Let Live, Love And Let Love. There Is No Point In Love.

It Is A Fine Thing To Establish One's Own Religion In One's Heart, Not To Be Dependent On Tradition And Second-hand Ideals. Life Will Seem To You, Later, Not A Lesser, But A Greater Thing.

Sleep Is A Hint Of Lovely Oblivion.

The Tragedy Is When You've Got Sex In The Head Instead Of Down Where It Belongs.