Truth is a hard dear to hunt. If you eat too much truth at once, you may die of the truth. - Stephen Vincent Benét

Rest you, my enemy,
Slain without fault,
Life smacks but tastelessly
Lacking your salt!
Stuck in a bog whence naught
May catapult me,
Come from the grave, long-sought,
Come and insult me!

When the last moonshiner buys his radio,
And the last, lost, wild-rabbit of a girl
Is civilized with a mail-order dress,
Something will pass that was American
And all the movies will not bring it back.

A soul. A soul is nothing. Can you see it, smell it, touch it? No.