If There Is A True Religion In

What, After All, Is More Real To Us Than The Geography Of Our Childhoods?

Barbarians, We Call Them, While All The While We Timidly Cling To Our Web Like Visigoths Crouching In The Ruins Of Rome's Faded Glory And Proclaim Ourselves Civilized.

This Is Every Writer's Nightmare - The Sudden Breakdown Of Meaning In The Language That Sustains And Supports Us.

Love Is Nothing But Lust Misspelled.

There Is A Certain Solipsism To Serious Illness Which Claims All Of One's Attention As Certainly As An Astronomical Black Hole Seizes Anything Unlucky Enough To Fall Within Its Critical Radius.