Procrastination Is What We Often Call 'resistance.

Every Man That Ever Lived Craved Perfect Happiness, The Detective Poignantly Reflected. But How Can We Have It When We Know We’re Going To Die? Each Joy Was Clouded By The Knowledge It Would End. And So Nature Had Implanted In Us A Desire For Something Unattainable? No. It Couldn’t Be. It Makes No Sense. Every Other Striving Implanted By Nature Had A Corresponding Object That Wasn’t A Phantom. Why This Exception? The Detective Reasoned. It Was Nature Making Hunger When There Wasn’t Any Food. We Continue. We Go On. Thus Death Proved Life.

From The Cab Stepped A Tall Old Man. Black Raincoat And Hat And A Battered Valise. He Paid The Driver, Then Turned And Stood Motionless, Staring At The House. The Cab Pulled Away And Rounded The Corner Of Thirty-sixty Street. Kinderman Quickly Pulled Out To Follow. As He Turned The Corner, He Noticed That The Tall Old Man Hadn't Moved But Was Standing Under The Streetlight Glow, In Mist, Like A Melancholy Traveler Frozen In Time.

We Mourn The Blossoms Of May Because They Are To Whither; But We Know That May Is One Day To Have Its Revenge Upon November, By The Revolution Of That Solemn Circle Which Never Stops - Which Teaches Us In Our Height Of Hope, Ever To Be Sober, And In Our Depth Of Desolation, Never To Despair.

Perhaps Evil Is The Crucible Of Goodness... And Perhaps Even Satan - Satan, In Spite Of Himself - Somehow Serves To Work Out The Will Of God.

As Far As God Goes, I _am_ A Nonbeliever. Still Am. But When It Comes To A Devil---well, That's Something Else.