... Baggott Enjoys Living On The Knife

Don't Even The Best And Most Fortunate Of Lives Hint At Other Possibilities, At A Different Kind Of Sweetness And, Yes, Bitterness Too? Isn't This Why We Can't Help Feeling Cheated, Even When We Know We Haven't Been?

Which Is Why We Have Spouses And Children And Parents And Colleagues And Friends, Because Someone Has To Know Us Better Than We Know Ourselves. We Need Them To Tell Us. We Need Them To Say, "i Know You, Al. You Are Not The Kind Of Man Who.

Why Mince Words? Beautiful Ruins Is An Absolute Masterpiece.

Were It Not For Occam's Razor, Which Always Demands Simplicity, I'd Be Tempted To Believe That Human Beings Are More Influenced By Distant Causes Than Immediate Ones. This Would Especially Be True Of Overeducated People, Who Are Capable Of Thinking Past The Immediate, Of Becoming Obsessed By The Remote. It's The Old Stuff, The Conflicts We've Never Come To Terms With, That Sneaks Up On Us, Half Forgotten, Insisting Upon Action.

The Line Of Gray Along The Horizon Is Brighter Now, And With The Coming Light I Feel A Certainty: That There Is, Despite Our Wild Imaginings, Only One Life. The Ghostly Others, No Matter How Real They Seem, No Matter How Badly We Need Them, Are Phantoms. The One Life We're Left With Is Sufficient To Fill And Refill Our Imperfect Hearts With Joy, And Then To Shatter Them. And It Never, Ever Lets Up.