Life Is A Message Scribbled In The

It Is A Singular Reaction, This Sitting Still And Writing, Writing, Writing, Or Ruminating At Length, Which Is Much The Same, Really.

All Colors Made Me Happy: Even Gray. My Eyes Were Such That Literally They Took Photographs.

Here Lies The Sense Of Literary Creation To Portray Ordinary Objects As They Will Be Reflected In Kindly Mirrors Of Future Times. . . . To Find In Objects Around Us The Fragrant Tenderness That Only Posterity Will Discern . . .

Do Those Clowns Really Believe What They Teach?

I Was Weeping Again, Drunk On The Impossible Past.