How Undisturbed, The Sleep Of The Foolish.

It's Not What Happened But How It Is Told.

What Scared Me The Most Was When My Father Would Put On The Gasmask. His Face Would Disappear... This Was Not A Human Being At All.

Life Is Short, He Thought. Art, Or Something Not Life, Is Long, Stretching Out Endless, Like [a] Concrete Worm. Flat, White, Unsmoothed By Any Passage Over Or Across It.

Life In Anaheim, California, Was A Commercial For Itself, Endlessly Replayed. Nothing Changed; It Just Spread Out Farther And Farther In The Form Of Neon Ooze. What There Was Always More Of Had Been Congealed Into Permanence Long Ago, As If The Automatic Factory That Cranked Out These Objects Had Jammed In The On Position.

Perhaps If You Know You Are Insane Then You Are Not Insane. Or You Are Becoming Sane, Finally.