I Worry About Images. Images Are What

And So The Ordinary Unendurable Torments We All Experienced Were Indeed Exceptional In The Way They Were Absorbed In Each Heart.

Someone Dying Asks If There Is Life After Death. Yes, Comes The Answer, Only Not Yours.

There Are Moments When I Cannot Bear This Unremitting Consciousness. It Knows Only Itself. Awake, I Am In A Continuum With My Dreams. I Feel My Typewriters, My Table, My Chair To Have That Assurance Of A Solid World, Where Things Take Up Space, Where Is Not The Endless Emptiness Of Insubstantial Thought That Leads To Nowhere But Itself. My Memories Pale As I Prevail Upon Them Again And Again. They Become More And More Ghostly. I Fear Nothing So Much As Losing Them Altogether And Having Only My Blank Endless Mind To Live In.

And Though The Newspapers Called The Shooting The Crime Of The Century, Goldman Knew It Was Only 1906 And There Were Ninety-four Years To Go.

Planning To Write Is Not Writing.