The Only Way To Do It Is

Another Dead Body. Every Year It Is The Same. Every Year, Another Dead Body.

A Man Asking For Help Ought To At Least Give Directions.

There Are Too Many People In The World As It Is, But The Supply Of Ancient Manuscripts Is Severely Limited.

Who Are We Really? Combinations Of Common Chemicals That Perform Mechanical Actions For A Few Years Before Crumbling Back Into The Original Components? Fresh New Souls, Drawn At Random For Some Celestial Cupboard Where God Keeps An Unending Supply?or The Same Soul, Immortal And Eternal, Refurbished And Reused Through Endless Lives, By That Thrifty Housekeeper? In Her Wisdom And Benevolence She Wipes Off The Memory Slates, As Part Of The Cleaning Process, Because If We Could Remember All The Things We Have Experienced In Earlier Lives, We Might Object To Risking It Again.

It Is Much More Sensible To Be An Optimist Instead Of A Pessimist, For If One Is Doomed To Disappointment, Why Experience It In Advance?