Here's To Alcohol, The Rose Colored Glasses

Almost Everybody Can Be Imagined As Either A Cat Or A Dog.

He Had Been Full Of The Idea So Long, Dreamed It Right Through To The End, Waited With His Teeth Set, So To Speak, At An Inconceivable Pitch Of Intensity. Now, In The Reaction, He Was Running Down Like An Overwound Clock.

Taking Her Hand He Led Her Out Into A Broad Stretch Of Hard Sandy Soil That The Moon Flooded With Great Splendor. They Floated Out Like Drifting Moths Under The Rich Hazy Light, And As The Fantastic Symphony Wept And Exulted And Wavered And Despaired, Ardita's Last Sense Of Reality Dropped Away, And She Abandonded Her Imagination To The Dreamy Summer Scents Of Tropial Flowers And The Infinite Starry Spaces Overhead, Feeling That If She Opened Her Eyes It Would Be To Find Herself Dancing With A Ghost In A Land Created By Her Own Fantasy.

There Has Never Been An American Tragedy. There Have Only Been Great Failures.

What Was It Up There In The Song That Seemed To Be Calling Her Back Inside? What Would Happen Now In The Dim, Incalculable Hours?