The Freedom Of Birds Is An Insult

This Is My Child, He Said. I Wash A Dead Man's Brains Out Of His Hair. That Is My Job.

To Have A Child When You're Older, It Wrenches You Up Out Of Your Nap And Makes You Look At Things, You Know, Afresh. It Forces The World On You. And I Think It's A Good Thing.

She Was Gone And The Coldness Of It Was Her Final Gift.

Yet It Is The Narrative That Is The Life Of The Dream While The Events Themselves Are Often Interchangeable. The Events Of The Waking World On The Other Hand Are Forced Upon Us And The Narrative Is The Unguessed Axis Along Which They Must Be Strung.

If There's One Thing On This Planet You Don't Look Like It's A Bunch Of Good Luck Walkin Around.