Death Is The Room That Is Always

Like All Mystics (and Many Novelists, Not Least The Present One) He Is Baffled, A Child, Before The Real Now; Far Happier Out Of It, In A Narrative Past Or A Prophetic Future, Locked Inside That Weird Tence Grammar Does Not Allow, The Imaginary Present.

There Are Two Kinds Of Hangover: In One You Feel Ill And Incapable, In The Other You Feel Ill And Lucid.

I Just Think Of Things As Beautiful Or Not. Can't You Understand? I Don't Think Of Good Or Bad. Just Of Beautiful Or Ugly. I Think A Lot Of Nice Things Are Ugly And A Lot Of Nasty Things Are Beautiful.

The World Began In Hazard And Will End In It.

If Anything Might Hurt Her, Silence Would; And I Wanted To Hurt Her.