See The Moon? It Hates Us.

Faint Equivalents Can Sometimes Be Found ... . Or It Can Be Rendered Obliquely-an Adolescent's Mental Image Of His Or Her Parents Making Love, Which Must Be Something On The Order Of Crocodiles Mating.

What An Artist Does, Is Fail. Any Reading Of The Literature, (i Mean The Literature Of Artistic Creation), However Summary, Will Persuade You Instantly That The Paradigmatic Artistic Experience Is That Of Failure. The Actualization Fails To Meet, Equal, The Intuition. There Is Something "out There" Which Cannot Be Brought "here". This Is Standard. I Don't Mean Bad Artists, I Mean Good Artists. There Is No Such Thing As A "successful Artist" (except, Of Course, In Worldly Terms).

The Death Of God Left The Angels In A Strange Position. They Were Overtaken Suddenly By A Fundamental Question. One Can Attempt To Imagine The Moment. How Did They Look At The Instant The Question Invaded Them, Flooding The Angelic Consciousness, Taking Hold With Terrifying Force? The Question Was, "what Are Angels?" New To Questioning, Unaccustomed To Terror, Unskilled In Aloneness, The Angels (we Assume) Fell Into Despair.

Maybe Writing Can't Be Taught, But Editing Can Be Taught—prayer, Fasting And Self-mutilation.

Food ... Is The Topmost Taper On The Golden Candelabrum Of Existence.