“I only go out to get me a fresh appetite for being alone.”
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Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.
But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.
Truth is always strange, stranger than fiction.
As long as I retain my feeling and my passion for Nature, I can partly soften or subdue my other passions and resist or endure those of others.
