They Think My Mother's Ashes Are Marijuana.

A Story Has No Beginning Or End: Arbitrarily One Chooses That Moment Of Experience From Which To Look Back Or From Which To Look Ahead.

But I'm A Bad Priest, You See. I Know--from Experience--how Much Beauty Satan Carried Down With Him When He Fell. Nobody Ever Said The Fallen Angels Were The Ugly Ones. Oh, No, They Were Just As Quick And Light And . . .

Pity Is Cruel. Pity Destroys.

They Think My Mother's Ashes Are Marijuana.

It's Strange How The Human Mind Swings Back And Forth, From One Extreme To Another. Does Truth Lie At Some Point Of The Pendulum's Swing, At A Point Where It Never Rests, Not In The Dull Perpendicular Mean Where It Dangles In The End Like A Windless Flag, But At An Angle, Nearer One Extreme Than Another? If Only A Miracle Could Stop The Pendulum At An Angle Of Sixty Degrees, One Would Believe The Truth Was There.