True Solitude Is A Din Of Birdsong,

Men Often Compete With One Another Until The Day They Die. Comradeship Consists Of Rubbing Shoulders Jocularly With A Competitor.

Animals Used To Provide A Lowlife Way To Kill And Get Away With It, As They Do Still, But, More Intriguingly, For Some People They Are An Aperture Through Which Wounds Drain. The Scapegoat Of Olden Times, Driven Off For The Bystanders Sins, Has Become A Tender Thing, A Running Injury. There, Running Away Is Me: Hurt It And You Are Hurting Me.

The Question Of Whether It's God's Green Earth Is Not At Center Stage, Except In The Sense That If So, One Is Reminded With Some Regularity That He May Be Dying.

It's Incongruous That The Older We Get, The More Likely We Are To Turn In The Direction Of Religion. Less Vivid And Intense Ourselves, Closer To The Grave, We Begin To Conceive Of Ourselves As Immortal.

If A Person Sings Quietly To Himself On The Street People Smile With Approval; But If He Talks It's Not Alright; They Think He's Crazy. The Singer Is Presumed To Be Happy And The Talker Unhappy.