A Screaming Comes Across The Sky.

Our History Is An Aggregate Of Last Moments

Despair Came Over Her, As It Will When Nobody Around Has Any Sexual Relevance To You.

So Generation After Generation Of Men In Love With Pain And Passivity Serve Out Their Time In The Zone, Silent, Redolent Of Faded Sperm, Terrified Of Dying, Desperately Addicted To The Comforts Others Sell Them, However Useless, Ugly Or Shallow, Willing To Have Life Defined For Them By Men Whose Only Talent Is For Death.

What Are The Stars But Points In The Body Of God Where We Insert The Healing Needles Of Our Terror And Longing?

It Takes, Unhappily, No More Than A Desk And Writing Supplies To Turn Any Room Into A Confessional.