I'm An American. We're A People Diseased

Yes, Eden Was Beautiful- And If I Had To Squeeze Through Corporeal Keyholes To Crash It- So Be It. (hasn’t It Bothered You, This Part Of The Story, My Being There, I Mean? What Was I Doing There? ‘presume Not The Ways Of God To Scan,’ You’ve Been Told In Umpteen Variations, ‘the Proper Study Of Mankind Is Man.’ Maybe So, But What, Excuse Me, Was The Devil Doing In Eden?) I Took The Forms Of Animals. I Found I Could. (that’s Generally My Reason For Doing Something, By The Way, Because I Find I Can.)

You Can't Blame Me. I Mean That Literally. You're Incapable Of Blaming Me. You're Human. Being Human Is Choosing Freedom Over Imprisonment, Autonomy Over Dependency, Liberty Over Servitude. You Can't Blame Me Because You Know (come On, Man, You've Always Known) That The Idea Of Spending Eternity With Nothing To Do Except Praise God Is Utterly Unappealing. You'd Be Catatonic After An Hour. Heaven's A Swiz Because To Get In You Have To Leave Yourself Outside. You Can't Blame Me Because -- Now Do Please Be Honest With Yourself For Once -- You'd Have Left, Too.

I'm Too Conceited For Therapy.

Your Ideal Possession Candidate's A Thirteen-year-old Recently Orphaned Schizophrenic Girl Three Days Away From Her Period On Her Way To See The Shrink With Whom She's Romantically Besotted.

There’s A Reason Humans Peg-out Around Eighty: Prose Fatigue. It Looks Like Organ Failure Or Cancer Or Stroke But It’s Really Just The Inability To Carry On Clambering Through The Assault Course Of Mundane Cause And Effect. If We Ask Sheila Then We Can’t Ask Ron. If I Have The Kippers Now Then It’s Quiche For Tea. Four Score Years Is About All The Ifs And Thens You Can Take. Dementia’s The Sane Realisation You Just Can’t Be Doing With All That Anymore.