The Interior Life Is Often Stupid.

I Am A Fugitive And A Vagabond, A Sojourner Seeking Signs.

Ecstasy, I Think, Is A Soul's Response To The Waves Holiness Makes As It Nears.

If Even Rock Was Interesting, If Even This Ugliness Was Worth Whole Shelves At The Library, Required Sophisticated Tools To Study, And Inspired Grown Men To Crack Mountains And Saw Crystals--then What Wasn't?

We Wake, If We Ever Wake At All, To Mystery, Rumors Of Death, Beauty, Violence.

Many Writers Do Little Else But Sit In Small Rooms Recalling The Real World.