Follow The Accident, Fear The Fixed Plan--that

Medieval Theologians Used To Dispute How The Angels In The Heaven Spent Their Time, When Not Balancing On Needle Points And Singing Anthems To The Lord. I Know. They Slump Glued To Their Clouds, Glasses At The Ready, As The Archangel Micheal (that Well-known Slasher) And Stonewalling St Peter Open Against The Devils Xi. It Could Not Be Heaven, Otherwise.

It's Despair At The Lack Of Feeling, Of Love, Of Reason In The World. It's Despair That Anyone Can Even Contemplate The Idea Of Dropping A Bomb Or Ordering That It Should Be Dropped. It's Despair That So Few Of Us Care. It's Despair That There's So Much Brutality And Callousness In The World. It's Despair That Perfectly Normal Young Men Can Be Made Vicious And Evil Because They've Won A Lot Of Money. And Then Do What You've Done To Me.

There Cannot Be Any True Leisure Until All The World Possesses It Equally.

If Anything Might Hurt Her, Silence Would; And I Wanted To Hurt Her.

His Statement To Himself Should Have Been, 'i Possess This Now, Therefore I Am Happy', Instead Of What It So Victorianly Was: "i Cannot Possess This For Ever, And Therefore Am Sad."