Endings To Be Useful Must Be Inconclusive.

You Know What I Do? I Listen To Other People, Stumbling About With Their Half Thoughts And Half Sentences And Their Clumsy Feelings That They Can't Express, And It Hurts Me. So I Go Home And Burnish It And Polish It And Weld It To A Rhythmic Frame, Make The Dull Colors Gleam, Mute The Garish Artificiality To Pastels, So It Doesn't Hurt Any More: That's My Poem. I Know What They Want To Say, And I Say It For Them.

Discourse Says, 'you Are.' Rhetoric Preserves The Freedom To Say, 'i Am Not.

The Night ... It Is Filled With Bestial Watchmen, Trammeling The Extremities And The Interstices Of The Timeless City, Portents Fallen, Constellated Deities Plummeting In Ash And Smoke, Roaming The Apocryphal Cities, The Cities Of Speculation And Reconstituted Disorder, Of Insemination And Incipience, Swept Round With The Dark.

In A Very Real Way, One Writes A Story To Find Out What Happens In It. Before It Is Written It Sits In The Mind Like A Piece Of Overheard Gossip Or A Bit Of Intriguing Tattle. The Story Process Is Like Taking Up Such A Piece Of Gossip, Hunting Down The People Actually Involved, Questioning Them, Finding Out What Really Occurred, And Visiting Pertinent Locations. As With Gossip, You Can't Be Too Surprised If Important Things Turn Up That Were Left Out Of The First-heard Version Entirely; Or If Points Initially Made Much Of Turn Out To Have Been Distorted, Or Simply Not To Have Happened At All.

If You Are To Stay In The Good Graces Of The Powerful, You Had Best, However Unobtrusively, Please The Servants Of The Powerful.