A Screaming Comes Across The Sky.

He Gazes Through Sunlight's Buttresses, Back Down The Refectory At The Others, Wallowing In Their Plenitude Of Bananas, Thick Palatals Of Their Hunger Lost Somewhere In The Stretch Of Morning Between Them And Himself. A Hundred Miles Of It, So Suddenly. Solitude, Even Among The Meshes Of This War, Can When It Wishes So Take Him By The Blind Gut And Touch, As Now, Possessively. Pirate's Again Some Other Side Of A Window, Watching Strangers Eat Breakfast.

It All Comes Down, As It Must, To The Desires Of Individual Men. Oh, And Women Too Of Course, Bless Their Empty Little Heads.

A Woman Is Only Half Of Something There Are Usually Two Sides To.

The Hand Of Providence Creeps Among The Stars, Giving Slothrop The Finger.

Some Typewriters In Whitehall, In The Pentagon, Killed More Civilians Than Our Little A4 Could Have Ever Hoped To.