Words are all we have.
Birth was the death of him.
Let me go to hell, that's all I ask, and go on cursing them there, and them look down and hear me, that might take some of the shine off their bliss.
I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.
What do I know of man's destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.
Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.
There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.