I beg you most humbly to go on loving me just a little and to make do with these poor congratulations until I get some new drawers made for my small and narrow brainbox in which I can keep the brains that I still intend to acquire.
In the home begins the disruption of the peace of the world.
I am but a small pencil in the hand of a writing God.
Today the artist has inherited the combined functions of hermit$$$ pilgrim$$$ prophet$$$ priest$$$ shaman$$$ sorcerer$$$ soothsayer$$$ alchemist.
The peace produced by grace is a spiritual stability too deep for violence. It is unshakeable.
Civilization is but a thin veneer stretched across the passions of the human heart. And civilization doesn't just happen; we have to make it happen.
And I want to rock your gypsy soul<br>Just like way back in the days of old<br>And magnificently we will fold into the mystic.
The box had done what Sweet Home had not$$$ what working like an ass and living like a dog had not: drove him crazy so he would not lose his mind.
They did not believe Nature was ever askew$$$ only inconvenient. Plague and drought were as natural as springtime. If milk could curdle$$$ God knows robins could fall.
He didn't needs words or even want them because he knew how they could lie$$$ could heat your blood and disappear.