That Strictly(and How)scienti Fic Land Of Supernod

-before Leaving My Room I Turn, And (stooping Through The Morning) Kiss This Pillow, Dear Where Our Heads Lived And Were.

Progress Is A Comfortable Disease.

All Which Isn't Singing Is Mere Talking... And All Talking's To Oneself Alone But The Very Song Of (as Mountains Feel And Lovers) Singing Is Silence.

That Which We Die For Lives As Wholly As That Which We Live For Dies.

One's Not Half Two. It's Two Are Halves Of One.