I Am Unlikely To Trust A Sentence

Words Are The Supreme Objects. They Are Minded Things.

Words [are] More Beautiful Than A Found Fall Leaf.

Fiction Becomes Visual By Becoming Verbal

The Word Itself Has Another Color. It’s Not A Word With Any Resonance, Although The E Was Once Pronounced. There Is Only The Bump Now Between B And L, The Relief At The End, The Whew. It Hasn’t The Sly Turn Which Crimson Takes Halfway Through, Yellow’s Deceptive Jelly, Or The Rolled-down Sound In Brown. It Hasn’t Violet’s Rapid Sexual Shudder Or Like A Rough Road The Irregularity Of Ultramarine, The Low Puddle In Mauve Like A Pancake Covered In Cream, The Disapproving Purse To Pink, The Assertive Brevity Of Red, The Whine Of Green.

I Usually Have Poor To Absent Relations With Editors Because They Have A Habit Of Desiring Changes And I Resist Changes.