I Can Draw And Write, And You'd

Our Bones Ache Only While The Flesh Is On Them. Stretch It As Thin As The Temple Flesh Of An Ailing Woman And Still It Serves To Ache The Bone And To Move The Bone About; And In Like Manner The Night Is A Skin Pulled Over The Head Of Day That The Day May Be In A Torment. We Will Find No Comfort Until The Night Melts Away; Until The Fury Of The Night Rots Out Its Fire.

To Think Is To Be Sick.

Man Is The Only Thing That Has No Further Use After Something Goes Amiss.

And Must I, Perchance, Like Careful Writers, Guard Myself Against The Conclusions Of My Readers?

Well, Isn't Bohemia A Place Where Everyone Is As Good As Everyone Else - And Must Not A Waiter Be A Little Less Than A Waiter To Be A Good Bohemian?