While Time, The Endless Idiot, Runs Screaming

The Music Left Only This Bad Hurt In Her, And A Blankness. She Could Not Remember Any Of The Symphony, Not Even The Last Few Notes. She Tried To Remember, But No Sound At All Came To Her. Now That It Was Over There Was Only Her Heart Like A Rabbit And This Terrible Hurt.

Maybe When People Longed For A Thing That Bad The Longing Made Them Trust In Anything That Might Give It To Them.

The World Is Certainty A Sudden Place.

Because In Some Men It Is In Them To Give Up Everything Personal At Some Time, Before It Ferments And Poisons--throw It To Some Human Being Or Some Human Idea. They Have To.

Love Is The Main Generator Of All Good Writing... Love, Passion, Compassion, Are All Welded Together.