Love Is A Form Of Prejudice. I

We Drove On And On, Past Little Villages And Both Good Things And Bad Things Were Happening To The People In Those Villages Too, But I Still Was Nothing But Arms And Ears And Eyes And Maybe There'd Be Either Some Good Luck For Me Or More Death Tomorrow.

The Free Soul Is Rare, But You Know It When You See It

Love Is A Fog That Burns With The First Daylight Of Reality.

Her One Drink Had Cecelia Giggling And Talking And She Was Explaining That Animals Had Souls Too. Nobody Challenged Her Opinion. It Was Possible, We Knew. What We Weren't Sure Of Was If We Had Any.

Each Man's Hell Is In A Different Place: Mine Is Just Up And Behind My Ruined Face.