And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;- This it is, and nothing more.

Love is an exorcism of angels.

If on thoughts of death we are fed,Thus, a coffin, became my bed.

Very often people have a very limited way of thinking.

A mind is a simulation that simulates itself.

Conventional wisdom won't provide continual growth.