Mortality Has Its Compensations; One Is That

Art Is A Delayed Echo.

Those Who Speak Most Of Progress Measure It By Quantity And Not By Quality.

Depression Is Rage Spread Thin.

If Pain Could Have Cured Us We Should Long Ago Have Been Saved.

Memory Itself Is An Internal Rumour; And When To This Hearsay Within The Mind We Add The Falsified Echoes That Reach Us From Others, We Have But A Shifting And Unseizable Basis To Build Upon. The Picture We Frame Of The Past Changes Continually And Grows Every Day Less Similar To The Original Experience Which It Purports To Describe.