Hell's Bells Ringing, My Secret Music.

I Wasn't Sent Here To Find Angels! I Wasn't Sent Here To Dream Of Them. I Wasn't Sent Here To Hear Them Sing! I Was Sent Here To Be Alive. To Breathe And Sweat And Thirst And Sometimes Cry.

Writers, As They Gain Success, Feel Like Outsiders Because Writers Don't Come Together In Real Groups.

The Nra Disgraced Itself This Morning With A Self-serving Press Event In Which They Demonized The Media And The Entertainment Industry For Gun Violence In America, And Advocated A National Data Base For All Mentally Ill Persons. They Apparently Want Armed Guards In All American Schools, And It Seems, Armed Volunteers As Well. Shocking.

I Didn’t Look To The Shore Much After This First Long And Memorable Glimpse. I Looked Up At Heaven And Her Court Of Mythical Creatures Fixed Forever In The All Powerful And Inscrutable Stars. Ink Black Was The Night Beyond Them, And They So Like Jewels That Old Poetry Came Back To Me, The Sound Even Of Hymns Sung Only By Men.

I Stumble Through A Carnival Of Horrors