Whatever You Say, Say Nothing.

One Small Cloud, Cast Out By The Herd, Limps Away To The West.

The Job Of The Writer Is To Look At Where He Is Now And Make Some Sort Of Emotional Sense Of It, Not Only For That Moment But For Years To Come.

She Takes Another Long Haul, Lets The Smoke Settle In Her Lungs-- She Has Heard Somewhere That Cigarettes Are Good For Grief. One Long Drag And You Forget How To Cry. The Body Too Busy Dealing With The Poison.

We Have To Admire The World For Not Ending On Us.

I'm A Complete And Utter Fiction. Then Again, We All Are.