Matter Is Plastic In The Face Of

But The Actual Touch Of Her Lingered, Inside His Heart. That Remained. In All The Years Of His Life Ahead, The Long Years Without Her, With Never Seeing Her Or Hearing From Her Or Knowing Anything About Her, If She Was Alive Or Happy Or Dead Or What, That Touch Stayed Locked Within Him, Sealed In Himself, And Never Went Away. That One Touch Of Her Hand.

Reality Denied Comes Back To Haunt.

Once A Guy Stood All Day Shaking Bugs From His Hair.

Either I've Invented A Whole New Logic Or, Ahem, I'm Not Playing With A Full Deck.

The Church Of My Choice Is The Free, Open World.