I Wrote From The Time I Was

There Is A Mistaken Idea, Ancient But Still With Us, That An Overdose Of Anything From Fornication To Hot Chocolate Will Teach Restraint By The Very Results Of Its Abuse.

... Most Bereaved Souls Crave Nourishment More Tangible Than Prayers: They Want A Steak. What Is More, They Need A Steak. Preferably They Need It Rare, Grilled, Heavily Salted, For That Way It Is Most Easily Digested, And Most Quickly Turned Into The Glandular Whip Their Tired Adrenals Cry For.

It Is Hard And Perhaps Impossible For Many People To Recognize The Difference Between Innocence And Naiveté.

There's A Communion Of More Than Our Bodies When Bread Is Broken And Wine Drunk.

I Sat In The Gradually Chilling Room, Thinking Of My Whole Past The Way A Drowning Man Is Supposed To, And It Seemed Part Of The Present, Part Of The Gray Cold And The Beggar Woman Without A Face And The Moulting Birds Frozen To Their Own Filth In The Orangerie. I Know Now I Was In The Throes Of Some Small Glandular Crisis, A Sublimated Bilious Attack, A Flick From The Whip Of Melancholia, But Then It Was Terrifying...nameless...