One chap, just over that-a-ways, complains that his brain has finally and completely “eaten him up.”
I ran across this other fellow who sometimes made sounds that had a vague whiff of the revolution about them, and what he’d do was periodically jump into wild pig shit up to his neck, and then not mention it.
Once you’re dead, EVERYone can speak Latin.
Part of being properly intellectualized in City affairs is in the ability to promptly reject any easy, obvious solutions.
Even after all these years, this one guy still faithfully places flowers at the site of his last thought.
(Those who can refrain from checking their progress
can probably do well.)