A Cliche Is Like A Coin That

I Think We're Starved For A Life Of The Senses. We're In The Garage, We're In The Car, We Drive To Work, We're In A Windowless Cubicle That's Gray And Beige. In A Way, It's Funny That We Consider Ourselves An Advanced Culture, Because People Who Live In So-called Primitive Environments Still Enjoy The Richness Of The Smells, Colors, And Sounds Of Our World. We All Crave That.

Her Hatred Glittered Irresistibly. I Could See It, The Jewel, It Was Sapphire, It Was The Cold Lakes Of Norway.

At Every Moment, Each Instrument Knew What To Play. Its Little Bit. But None Could See The Whole Thing Like This, All At Once, Only Its Own Part. Just Like Life. Each Person Was Like A Line Of Music, But Nobody Knew What The Symphony Sounded Like. Only The Conductor Had The Whole Score.

Who Can Judge Another Man's Suffering?

Although She Was Giddy With Exhaustion, Sleep Was A Lover Who Refused To Be Touched.