If There Is Any Difficulty In What

No One Who Has Any Self-respect Stays In Ireland, But Flees Afar As Though From A Country That Has Undergone The Visitation Of An Angered Jove.

No Pen, No Ink, No Table, No Room, No Time, No Quiet, No Inclination.

My Mouth Is Full Of Decayed Teeth And My Soul Of Decayed Ambitions.

Bury The Dead. Say Robinson Crusoe Was True To Life. Well Then Friday Buried Him. Every Friday Buries A Thursday If You Come To Look At It.

Why Is It That Words Like These Seem Dull And Cold? Is It Because There Is No Word Tender Enough To Be Your Name?