What under the bright city sun could be dumber or sillier than a man writing “odes to love.” (Except, of course, for a woman doing the same thing.)
There was this inner-City cult that flourished one time for all of four or five hours, who believed that the human spirit was like an automobile engine, and that beauty was the excise tax on gasoline…hey, could I make that up?
At the conclusion of a frenzied, and blood soaked battle, as he lay dying, a Revolutionist asked, “The King, is he dead, and if so, was it due to the after-point conversation?”
Either do the inappropriate at unexpected times, or, at the very least, do the vice versy.
For a man to have a precise, specific, detailed plan, is equal to having absolutely no plan at all. You do understand that, don’t you?
There was this one, rather spicy Revolutionist, who throughout the day would ask himself, “Yeah, but what have I done to me, I mean, for me lately?”