The Clock Ticked With Empty Urgency, As

I Am An Invisible Man. No, I Am Not A Spook Like Those Who Haunted Edgar Allan Poe; Nor Am I One Of Your Hollywood-movie Ectoplasms.

I Felt That Even When They Were Polite They Hardly Saw Me, That They Would Have Begged The Pardon Of Jack The Bear, Never Glancing His Way If The Bear Happened To Be Walking Along Minding His Business. It Was Confusing. I Did Not Know If It Was Desirable Or Undesirable.

America Is Woven Of Many Strands. I Would Recognise Them And Let It So Remain. Our Fate Is To Become One, And Yet Many. This Is Not Prophecy, But Description.

And The Mind That Has Conceived A Plan Of Living Must Never Lose Sight Of The Chaos Against Which That Pattern Was Conceived. That Goes For Societies As Well As For Individuals.

The Act Of Writing Requires A Constant Plunging Back Into The Shadow Of The Past Where Time Hovers Ghostlike.