In General, I Almost Always Watch Foreign

People Who Disagree With His Excellency, The President For Life And 'chief Of Chiefs,' Are Frequently Found To Be The Victims Of Car Crashes (their Bodies Mysteriously Riddled With Bullets); Or Dead In Their Beds Of Heart Attacks (their Bodies Mysteriously Riddled With Bullets); Or The Recipients Of Some Not-quite-fresh Seafood (their Bodies Mysteriously Riddled With Bullets).

You Learn Not To Mourn Every Little Thing Out Here, Or You’d Never, Ever Stop Grieving.

There's A Point At Which Writing A Book, Or A Long Article, Begins To Feel Like Mental Labor, And It's Too Painful To Connect In The World In Any Real Way Mid-process. The Only Way To Survive Is To Write Until It Is All Said And Done.

What Is Important Is The Story. Because When We Are All Dust And Teeth And Kicked-up Bits Of Skin - When We're Dancing With Our Own Skeletons - Our Words Might Be All That's Left Of Us.

But I Plucked A New, Different, Worldly Soul For Myself -- Maybe A Soul I Found In The Spray Thrown Up By The Surge Of That Distant African River As It Plummets Onto Black Rocks And Sends Up Into The Sun A Permanent Arc Of A Rainbow.