The Sun Rose Like A Stripper, Keeping

Let The Mad Find Wisdom In Their Madness For The Sane, And Let The Sane Be Grateful.

Of All The Rash And Midnight Promises Made In The Name Of Love, None, Boone Now Knew, Was More Certain To Be Broken Than "i'll Never Leave You.

I Am A Man, And Men Are Animals Who Tell Stories. This Is A Gift From God, Who Spoke Our Species Into Being, But Left The End Of Our Story Untold. That Mystery Is Troubling To Us. How Could It Be Otherwise? Without The Final Part, We Think, How Are We To Make Sense Of All That Went Before: Which Is To Say, Our Lives? So We Make Stories Of Our Own, In Fevered And Envious Imitation Of Our Maker, Hoping That We'll Tell, By Chance, What God Left Untold. And Finishing Our Tale, Come To Understand Why We Were Born.

Everybody Is A Book Of Blood; Wherever We're Opened, We're Red.

Leavening The Flat Bread Of What We Know, With The Yeast Of What We Dream May Come To Pass.