I Would Never Write In Response To

World Is Supposed To Mean Something That's Self-contained. But Nothing Is Self-contained.

Some Nights I Need To Be Held. Tonight I'm A Listener. So Nice To Lie In Rumpled Sheets And Listen. Cover Me With Words.

He Wanted Paper And Something To Write With, Some Way To Sustain A Thought, To Place It In The World.

Air Travel Reminds Us Who We Are. It's The Means By Which We Recognize Ourselves As Modern. The Process Removes Us From The World And Sets Us Apart From Each Other. We Wander In The Ambient Noise, Checking One More Time For The Flight Coupon, The Boarding Pass, The Visa. The Process Convinces Us That At Any Moment We May Have To Submit To The Force That Is Implied In All This, The Unknown Authority Behind It, Behind The Categories, The Languages We Don't Understand. This Vast Terminal Has Been Erected To Examine Souls.

The Genius Of The Primitive Mind Is That It Can Render Human Helplessness In Noble And Beautiful Ways.