It’s Got To Be Some Kind Of

Look At Picasso. O’neill. Tennessee Williams. Capote. Were These Shiny Happy People Spreading Sunshine? No. Only The Greatest Of Personal Demons Can Force You To Do Powerful Work.

It’s Got To Be Some Kind Of Cult. Anyone Offers You Kool-aid Or A Hot Shower, Say No.

...i Couldn't Let Go Of The Thought That It Had, In Fact, Been He, Restless And Moody Heathcliff. Day After Day, He Floated Through All The Wal-marts In America, Searching For Me In A Million Lonely Aisles.

It Was What Accidental Deaths Did To People, Made Everybody's Sea Floor Irregular And Uneven, Causing Tidal Currents To Collide, Surge Upward, Thereby Resulting In Small Yet Volatile Eddies Churning At Everybody's Surface. (in The More Dangerous Cases, It Created A Lasting Whirlpool In Which The Strongest Swimmers Could Drown.)

I Was Aware Too How Strange Adults Were, How Theirs Lives Were Vaster Than They Wanted Anyone To Realize, That They Actually Stretched On And On Like Deserts, Dry And Desolate, With An Unpredictable, Shifting Sea Of Dunes.