Despair Is A Cavern Beneath Our Feet

All The Times, All The Very Many Times, I Had Been Forced To Thwart And Stifle My Own Nature Seemed To Gather Together Then, In That Hot And Dismal Corridor. I Heard A Rushing Sound In My Head And Felt A Pressure In My Breast, Like Floodwaters Rising Behind A Flimsy Dike. Before I Knew I Did It, The Soup Bowl Was Rising In My Hand As If Elevated By Some Supernatural Force. Then, Its Yellow-gray Contents Were Running Down The Nurse's Pudgy Face.

While I Love To Read Contemporary Fiction, I'm Not Drawn To Writing It. Perhaps It's Because The Former Journalist In Me Is Too Inhibited By The Press Of Reality; When I Think About Writing Of My Own Time I Always Think About Nonfiction Narratives. Or Perhaps It's Just That I Find The Present Too Confounding.

If There Is One Class Of Person I Have Never Quite Trusted, It Is A Man Who Knows No Doubt.

We Are Not The Only Animal That Mourns; Apes Do, And Elephants, And Dogs. Yet We Are The Only One That Tortures.

For Most People, Chemotherapy Is No Longer The Chamber Of Horrors We Often Conceive It To Be. Yes, It Is An Ordeal For Some People, But It Wasn't For Me, Nor For Most Of The Patients I Got To Know During My Four Months Of Periodic Visits To The Chemo Suite.