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He Pretended It Was The Only Thing That Kept Him From It. But, Far Back In His Mind, He Wondered If He Could Write Anything. Often The Question Threw Itself At Him When He Was Least Expecting It. You Have Four Hours Every Morning, The Statement Would Rise Like A Menacing Wraith. You Have Time To Write Many Thousands Of Words. Why Don't You? And The Answer Was Always Lost In A Tangle Of Becauses And Wells And Endless Reasons That He Clung To Like A Drowning Man At Straws.

Now When I Die, I Shall Only Be Dead.

Heaven Would Never Be Heaven Without You.

We've Forgotten Much. How To Struggle, How To Rise To Dizzy Heights And Sink To Unparalleled Depths. We No Longer Aspire To Anything. Even The Finer Shades Of Despair Are Lost To Us. We've Ceased To Be Runners. We Plod From Structure To Conveyance To Employment And Back Again. We Live Within The Boundaries That Science Has Determined For Us. The Measuring Stick Is Short And Sweet. The Full Gamut Of Life Is A Brief, Shadowy Continuum That Runs From Gray To More Gray. The Rainbow Is Bleached. We Hardly Know How To Doubt Anymore. (“the Thing”)

That's What Was Wrong With Drinking Too Much. You Became Immune To Drunken Delights. There Was No Solace In Liquor. Before You Got Happy, You Collapsed.