Nothing One Does In Bed Is Immoral

Freedom Is Often The First Casualty Of War.

Each Man Is Master Of His Own Death, And All That We Can Do When The Time Comes Is To Help Him Die Without Fear Of Pain.

Her Heart Of Compressed Ash, Which Had Resisted The Most Telling Blows Of Daily Reality Without Strain, Fell Apart With The First Waves Of Nostalgia.

And Again, As Always, After So Many Years We Were Still In The Same Place We Always Were.

At Some Point, You No Longer Feel Pain. Sensation Disappears And Reason Is Dulled, Until You Lose All Grasp Of Time And Place.