Don't Touch Me, I'm Full Of Snakes.

Whither Goest Thou, America, In Thy Shiny Car In The Night?

The Road Must Eventually Lead To The Whole World.

It Was A Rainy Night. It Was The Myth Of The Rainy Night.

But Night Would Come And With It The Mountain Moon And The Lake Would Be Moon - Laned And I'd Go Out And Sit In The Grass And Meditate Facing West, Wishing There Were A Personal God In All This Impersonal Matter.

I Spent My Entire Youth Writing Slowly With Revisions And Endless Rehashing Speculation And Deleting And Got So I Was Writing One Sentence A Day And The Sentence Had No Feeling. Goddamn It, Feeling Is What I Like In Art, Not Craftiness And The Hiding Of Feelings.