For me$$$ Art is the restoration of order. It may discuss all sort of terrible things$$$ but there must be satisfaction at the end. A little bit of hunger$$$ but also satisfaction.

It never looked as terrible as it was and it made her wonder if hell was a pretty place too. Fire and brimstone all right$$$ but hidden in lacy groves.

I don't think a female running a house is a problem$$$ a broken family. It's perceived as one because of the notion that a head is a man.

I dream a dream that dreams back at me.

What difference do it make if the thing you scared of is real or not?

I called to wish you an unhappy birthday because you're evil and you lie and if you should die$$$ I may feel slightly sad$$$ but I won't cry.

She is a friend of my mind. She gather me$$$ man. The pieces I am$$$ she gather them and give them back to me in all the right order.

I pondered all these things$$$ and how men fight and lose the battle$$$ and the thing that they fought for comes about in spite of their defeat$$$ and when it comes turns out not to be what they meant$$$ and other men have to fight for what they meant under another name.

Do not be deceived by the outside appearance of order in our plutocratic society. It fares with it as it does with the older norms of war$$$ that there is an outside look of quite wonderful order about it; how neat and comforting the steady march of the regiment; how quiet and respectable the sergeants look; how clean the polished cannon ...

Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see$$$<br>Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me;<br>In exile thy bosom shall still be my home$$$<br>And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam.