I Would Like To Learn, Or Remember,

The Mind Of The Writer Does Indeed Do Something Before It Dies, And So Does Its Owner, But I Would Be Hard Put To Call It Living.

Even If Things Are As Bad As They Could Possible Be, And As Meaningless, Then Matters Of Truth Are Themselves Indifferent; We May As Well Please Our Sensibilities And, With As Much Spirit As We Can Muster, Go Out With A Buck And A Wing.

What Is Important Is The Moment Of Opening A Life And Feeling It Touch--with An Electric Hiss And Cry--this Speckled Mineral Sphere, Our Present World.

What A Hideout: Holiness Lies Spread And Borne Over The Surface Of Time And Stuff Like Color.

Buddhism Notes That It Is Always A Mistake To Think Your Soul Can Go It Alone.