When You Put A Man And A Woman Together, There Are Some Things They Simply Have To Do. They Embrace, They Warm Each Other. All The Rest Is Dead And Empty.
Of All Fatiguing, Futile, Empty Trades, The Worst, I Suppose, Is Writing About Writing.
Entirety Exists Within Me As Exuberance In Empty Longing In The Desire To Burn With Desire.
The Universe And Its Beings Are A Complementarity Of Empty Infinity, Intimate Interrelationships, And Total Uniqueness Of Each And Every Being.
We Are Very Cruelly Trapped Between What We Would Like To Be And What We Actually Are. And We Cannot Possibly Become What We Would Like To Be Until We Are Willing To Ask Ourselves Just Why The Lives We Lead On This Continent Are Mainly So Empty, So Tame, And So Ugly.
Of All The People Expressing Their Mental Vacuity, None Has A Better Excuse For An Empty Head Than The Newspaperman: If He Pauses To Restock His Brain, He Invites Onrushing Deadlines To Trample Him Flat. Broadcasting The Contents Of Empty Minds Is What Most Of Us Do Most Of The Time, And Nobody More Relentlessly Than I.
