Your Knowing A Thing Is Nothing, Unless

Each Man Has His Own Desires; All Do Not Possess The Same Inclinations.

It Is Pleasing To Be Pointed At With The Finger And To Have It Said, "there Goes The Man." [lat., At Pulchrum Est Digito Monstrari Et Dicier His Est.]

Lives There The Man With Soul So Dead As To Disown The Wish To Merit The People's Applause, And Having Uttered Words Worthy To Be Kept In Cedar Oil To Latest Times, To Leave Behind Him Rhymes That Dread Neither Herrings Nor Frankincense.

We Consume Our Tomorrows Fretting About Our Yesterdays.

Things Fit Only To Give Weight To Smoke.