On those genre-free nights, she just writes and writes.
Tourism, lovers' strolls, arm in arm under the sun.
Mine is the ever perpetuating fricassee of life's continuity.

Above all, be clear, man; be totally totally clear.
No point in dashing onto stage and be timid.
Knowing, you know, I know nothing, you would know.

I made a mistake: I said the wrong thing.
Metaphysics as a Guide to Morals, by Iris Murdoch.
Is there any point in questioning such a notion?