All Fiction Is Autobiographical Fantasy.

Hold To The Now, The Here, Through Which All Future Plunges To The Past.

He Found In The World Without As Actual What Was In His World Within As Possible.

It Was Cold Autumn Weather, But In Spite Of The Cold They Wandered Up And Down The Roads Of The Park For Nearly Three Hours. They Agreed To Break Off Their Intercourse; Every Bond, He Said, Is A Bond To Sorrow.

All Moanday, Tearday, Wailsday, Thumpsday, Frightday, Shatterday.

He Wanted To Cry Quietly But Not For Himself: For The Words, So Beautiful And Sad, Like Music.