The Sky Sinks In The Morning, This

Until The Day When, Your Endurance Gone, In This World For You Without Arms, You Catch Up In Yours The First Mangy Cur You Meet, Carry It For The Time Needed For It To Love It And You It, Then Throw It Away.

No Painting Is More Replete Than Mondrian's.

Friendship, According To Proust, Is The Negation Of That Irremediable Solitude To Which Every Human Being Is Condemned.

It Is Right That He Too Should Have His Little Chronicle, His Memories, His Reason, And Be Able To Recognize The Good In The Bad, The Bad In The Worst, And So Grow Gently Old Down All The Unchanging Days, And Die One Day Like Any Other Day, Only Shorter.

Love, That Is All I Asked, A Little Love, Daily, Twice Daily, Fifty Years Of Twice Daily Love Like A Paris Horse-butcher's Regular, What Normal Woman Wants Affection?