If You Don't Know Why You Like

He Awoke, Opened His Eye. The Room Meant Very Little To Him; He Was Too Deeply Immersed In The Non-being From Which He Had Just Come. If He Had Not The Energy To Ascertain His Position In Time And Space, He Also Lacked The Desire. ... In Utter Comfort, Utter Relaxation He Lay Absolutely Still For A While, And Then Sank Back Into On The The Light Momentary Sleeps That Occur After A Long, Profound One.

Life Is Lived Only Once. And The Less Seriously The Better.

That Was What He Wanted, To Be Baked Dry And Hard, To Feel The Vaporous Worries Evaporating One By One, To Know Finally That All The Damp Little Doubts And Hesitations That Covered The Floor Of His Being Were Curling Up And Expiring In The Great Furnace-blast Of The Sun.

Fiction Should Always Steer Clear Of Political Considerations.

Because Neither She Nor Port Had Ever Lived A Life Of Any Kind Of Regularity, They Had Both Made The Fatal Error Of Coming Hazily To Regard Time As Non-existent. One Year Was Like Another Year. Eventually Everything Would Happen.