Incompetency Fed On Itself.

I Think I Exist, Therefore I Exist. I Think.

A Work Of Art Is An Act Of Love. Critics Are Crab Lice.

Christianity Has Held Back Any Further Advances In Human Consciousness For The Past Thousand Years. And For The Past Century It's Been In Direct Conflict With Its Illegitimate Offspring, Communism (again With A Capital C). Both Ask The Individual To Sacrifice His Self-interest To The Higher Goals Of The Organization. (which Is Okay By Me As Long As It's Voluntary; But As Soon As Either Becomes Too Big - And Takes On That Damned Capital C - They Stop Asking For Cooperation And Start Demanding It.) Any Higher States Of Human Enlightenment Have Been Sacrificed Between These Two Monoliths.

Contentment Is The Continuing Act Of Accepting The Process Of Your Own Life.

Something Went Klunk. Like A Nickel Dropping In A Soda Machine. One Of Those Small Insights That Explains Everything. This Was Puberty For These Boys. Adolescence. The First Date, The First Kiss, The First Chance To Hold Hands With Someone Special. Delayed, Postponed, A Decade's Worth Of Longing--while Everybody Around You Celebrates Life, You Pretend, Suppress, Inhibit, Deprive Yourself Of You Own Joy--but Finally Ultimately, Eventually, You Find A Place Where You Can Have A Taste Of Everything Denied.