Dead Fields Under A November Sky, Scattered

Above, The Stars Shone Hard And Bright, Sparks Struck Off The Dark Skin Of The Universe.

If You Don't Control Your Temper, Your Temper Will Control You.

One Only Wishes Wayne Lapierre And His Nra Board Of Directors Could Be Drafted To Some Of These Scenes, Where They Would Be Required To Put On Booties And Rubber Gloves And Help Clean Up The Blood, The Brains, And The Chunks Of Intestine Still Containing The Poor Wads Of Half-digested Food That Were Some Innocent Bystander's Last Meal.

"am I Weird?" "yeah. But So What? Everybody's Weird."

Sometimes Stories Cry Out To Be Told In Such Loud Voices That You Write Them Just To Shut Them Up.