I Never Abandoned Either Forms Or Freedom.

Once In Awhile You Have A Thought, And You Rhyme It.

Children, To Be Illustrious Is Sad.

The Only Way Out Is The Way Through, Just As You Cannot Escape Death Except By Dying. Being Unable To Write, You Must Examine In Writing This Being Unable, Which Becomes For The Present -henceforth?- The Subject To Which You Are Condemned.

Till I, High In The Tower Of My Time Among Familiar Ruins, Began To Cry For Accident, Sickness, Justice, War And Crime, Because All Died, Because I Had To Die. The Snow Fell, The Trees Stood, The Promise Kept, And A Child I Slept.

Obvious Enough That Generalities Work To Protect The Mind From The Great Outdoors; Is It Possible That This Was In Fact Their First Purpose?