See The Moon? It Hates Us.

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.

The Writer Is One Who, Emnbarking Upon A Task, Does Not Know What To Do.

The World Is Sagging, Snagging, Scaling, Spalling, Pilling, Pinging, Pitting, Warping, Checking, Fading, Chipping, Cracking, Yellowing, Leaking, Stalling, Shrinking, And In Dynamic Unbalance.

Any Genuine Work Of Art Generates New Work.

Art Is Not Difficult Because It Wishes To Be Difficult, But Because It Wishes To Be Art.