A Functioning Police State Needs No Police.

Death Needs Time For What It Kills To Grow In.

O Death Where Is Thy Sting? The Man Is Never On Time.

All Writing Is In Fact Cut-ups. A Collage Of Words Read Heard Overheard. What Else?

For Seven Days She Lay In Bed Looking Sullenly At The Ceiling As Though Resenting The Death She Had Cultivated For So Many Years. Like Some People Who Cannot Vomit Despite Horrible Nausea, She Lay There Unable To Die, Resisting Death As She Had Resisted Life, Frozen With Resentment Of Process And Change.

No One Owns Life, But Anyone Who Can Pick Up A Frying Pan Owns Death.