Time Is Rhythm: The Insect Rhythm Of

All My Stories Are Webs Of Style And None Seems At First Blush To Contain Much Kinetic Matter.

We Loved Each Other With A Premature Love, Marked By A Fierceness That So Often Destroys Adult Lives.

The Summer Night Was Starless And Stirless, With Distant Spasms Of Silent Lightning.

And Really, The Reason We Think Of Death In Celestial Terms Is That The Visible Firmament, Especially At Night (above Our Blacked-out Paris With The Gaunt Arches Of Its Boulevard Exelmans And The Ceaseless Alpine Gurgle Of Desolate Latrines), Is The Most Adequate And Ever-present Symbol Of That Vast Silent Explosion.

The Compensation For A Death Sentence Is The Knowledge Of The Exact Hour When One Is To Die. A Great Luxury, But One That Is Well Earned.