Anyone whose dying words were, “I tried so hard to do what’s right,” deserved to die.
All City ideas of religion are bridges spanning the gorge ‘twixt ignorance and a cold spell.
Tell me who you think you are, and I’ll tell you who you’re not.
The final chorus of all fanatical operas is a death march of some kind.
Those “artsy” folks in the City who like to begin their songs with the words, “Whenever I get to thinking…” never do.