I Blundered Into Writing.

Without The Possibility Of Action, All Knowledge Comes To One Labeled 'file And Forget.'

Education Is All A Matter Of Building Bridges.

I Suddenly Recall The Arpeggios Of Laughter Lilting Across The Tender, Springtime Grass-gay-welling, Far-floating, Fluent, Spontaneous, A Bell-like Feminine Fluting, Then Suppressed; As Though Snuffed Swiftly And Irrevocably Beneath The Quiet Solemnity Of The Vespered Air Now Vibrant With Somber Chapel Bells.

In Order To Travel Far You Have To Be Detached.

To Hell With Being Ashamed Of What You Liked.