Miss My Daily Mass, And Have A

How Agreeable To Watch, From The Other Side Of The High Stile, This Mighty Creature, This Fat Bull Of Bashan, Snorting, Champing, Pawing The Earth, Lashing The Tail, Breathing Defiance At Heaven And At Me ... His Heart Hot With Hate, Unable To Climb A Stile.

Behavior Of Such Cunning Cruelty That Only A Human Being Could Have Thought Of Or Contrived It We Call 'inhuman,' Revealing Thus Some Pathetic Ideal Standard For Our Species That Survives All Betrayals.

The Very Utterness Of The Crash And Ruin, The Desperation Of The Case, Might Be Its Hope. On Ruins One Can Begin To Build. Anyhow, Looking Out From Ruins One Clearly Sees; There Are No Obstructing Walls.

One Day I Shall Write A Little Book Of Conduct Myself, And I Shall Call It Social Problems Of The Unsociable. And The Root Problem, Beneath A Hundred Varying Manifestions, Is How To Escape. How To Escape, That Is, At Those Times, Be They Few Or Frequent, When You Want To Keep Yourself To Yourself.

Miss My Daily Mass, And Have A Superstitious Feeling That Anything May Happen On The Days I Don't Go. However, Nothing In Particular Has.