I allow no one to touch me.
I used to work in a factory and I was really happy because I could daydream all day.
Existence is. . well. . what does it matter? I exist on the best terms I can. The past is now part of my future. The present is well out of hand.
Reality is only a dream, based on values and well worn principles, whereas the dream goes on forever.
I struggle between what I know is right in my own mind, and some warped truthfulness as seen through other people's eyes who have no heart, and can't see the difference anyway.
Nothing seems real anymore. Even the flames from the fire seem to beckon to me, drawing me into some great past life buried somewhere deep in my subconscious, if only I could find the key. . if only. . if only. Ever since my illness, my condition, I've been trying to find some logical way of passing my time, of justifying a means to an end.
When routine bites hard, and ambitions are low. When resentment rides high, but emotion won't grow. . . and we're changing our ways, taking different roads. Love will tear us apart.
There's a hole in the world Like a great black pit And the vermin of the world Inhabit it. . . And it goes by the name of London.
A militia law, requiring all men, or with very few exceptions besides cases of conscience, to be provided with arms and ammunition. . . is always a wise institution, and, in the present circumstances of our country, indispensable.
We must not put pressure on people, but by providing information on the population and the environment, and appropriate contraception for everyone (and by their own example), doctors should help bring family size into the arena of environmental ethics, analogous to avoiding patio heaters and high carbon cars.
Those who influenced me the most are not those who pointed out all my faults, but those who knew God was bigger than my shortcomings. Those who influenced me the most didn't just point a finger, they held out a helping hand.