I Love The Flesh. I'm A Pagan.

Man Is A Flux Of States Of Consciousness, A Flow Of Passing Thoughts, Each Thought Of Self Another Self, A Myriad Thoughts, A Myriad Selves, A Continual Becoming But Never Being, A Will-of-the-wisp Flitting Of Ghosts In Ghostland.

They Were Not Half Living, Or Quarter Living. They Were Simply So Many Bags Of Bones In Which Sparks Of Life Fluttered Faintly.

The Aim Of Life Was Meat. Life Itself Was Meat. Life Lived On Life. There Were The Eaters And The Eaten.

. . . And God Knows We Are Sensitive To The Suffering That Has Sometimes Broken Loose To Come Billowing Forth From Your Appendages Like The Pungent Vapors Of Whales - Often It Appears That In This Life Of Experience And Accommodation We Pay Just As Dearly For Our Triumphs As We Do For Our Defeats. But Sissy . . . Hold On!

My Mistake Was In Ever Opening The Books.