To Live, To Err, To Fall, To

His Soul Swooned Slowly As He Heard The Snow Falling Faintly Through The Universe And Faintly Falling, Like The Descent Of Their Last End, Upon All The Living And The Dead.

What Kind Of Liberation Would That Be To Forsake An Absurdity Which Is Logical And Coherent And To Embrace One Which Is Illogical And Incoherent?

What Did It Avail To Pray When He Knew His Soul Lusted After Its Own Destruction?

Absence, The Highest Form Of Presence.

All Fiction Is Autobiographical Fantasy.