Good-bye Clarice. Will You Let Me Know

But The Face On The Pillow, Rosy In The Firelight, Is Certainly That Of Clarice Starling, And She Sleeps Deeply, Sweetly, In The Silence Of The Lambs.

It Occurred To Dr. Lecter In The Moment That With All His Knowledge And Intrusion, He Could Never Entirely Predict Her, Or Own Her At All. He Could Feed The Caterpillar, He Could Whisper Through The Chrysalis; What Hatched Out Followed Its Own Nature And Was Beyond Him. He Wondered If She Had The .45 On Her Leg Beneath The Gown. Clarice Starling Smiled At Him Then, The Cabochons Caught The Firelight And The Monster Was Lost In Self-congratulation At His Own Exquisite Taste And Cunning.

And Be Grateful. Our Scars Have The Power To Remind Us That The Past Was Real.

What Do You Look At While You’re Making Up Your Mind? Ours Is Not A Reflective Culture, We Do No Raise Our Eyes Up To The Hills. Most Of The Time We Decide The Critical Things While Looking At The Linoleum Floor Of An Institutional Corridor, Or Whispering Hurriedly In A Waiting Room With A Television Blatting Nonsense.

What Does He Do, Clarice? What Is The First And Principal Thing He Does, What Need Does He Serve By Killing? He Covets. How Do We Begin To Covet? We Begin By Coveting What We See Every Day.