If It Is Not Beautiful For Someone,

Tragedy Was Foresworn, In Ritual Denial Of The Ripe Knowledge That We Are Drawing Away From One Another, That We Share Only One Thing, Share The Fear Of Belonging To Another, Or To Others, Or To God; Love Or Money, Tender Equated In Advertising And The World, Where Only Money Is Currency, And Under Dead Trees And Brittle Ornaments Prehensile Hands Exchange Forgeries Of What The Heart Dare Not Surrender.

He Was Doing Missionary Work. But From The Outset He Had Little Success In Convincing His Charges Of Their Responsibility For A Sin Committed At The Beginning Of Creation, One Which, As They Understood It, They Were Ready And Capable (indeed, They Carried Charms To Assure It) Of Duplicating Themselves. He Did No Better Convincing Them That A Man Had Died On A Tree To Save Them All: An Act Which One Old Indian, If Gwyon Had Translated Correctly, Regarded As "rank Presumption".

If It Is Not Beautiful For Someone, It Does Not Exist.

We're Comic. We're All Comics. We Live In A Comic Time. And The Worse It Gets The More Comic We Are.

Say A Word, Say A Thousand To Me On The Telephone And I Shall Choose The Wrong One To Cling To As Though You Had Said It After Long Deliberation When Only I Provoked It From You, I Will Cling To It From Among A Thousand, To Be Provoked And Hurl It Back With Something I Mean No More Than You Meant That, Something For You To Cling To And Retreat Clinging To.