Every Man With His Own Peculiar Vice.

...and It Strikes Her, As She Walks, That Borders, Like Hatred, Are Exaggerated Precisely Because Otherwise They Would Cease To Exist Altogether.

Stories Are There To Be Told, And Each Story Changes With The Telling. Time Changes Them. Logic Changes Them. Grammar Changes Them. History Changes Them. Each Story Is Shifted Side-ways By Each Day That Unfolds. Nothing Ends. The Only Thing That Matters, As Faulkner Once Put It, Is The Human Heart In Conflict With Itself. At The Heart Of All This Is The Possibility, Or Desire, To Create A Piece Of Art That Talks To The Human Instinct For Recovery And Joy.

She Takes Another Long Haul, Lets The Smoke Settle In Her Lungs-- She Has Heard Somewhere That Cigarettes Are Good For Grief. One Long Drag And You Forget How To Cry. The Body Too Busy Dealing With The Poison.

People Are Good Or Half Good Or A Quarter Good, And It Changes All The Time- But Even On The Best Day Nobody's Perfect.

I'm A Complete And Utter Fiction. Then Again, We All Are.