It Seems To Me That Before The

Dreams, Memories, The Sacred--they Are All Alike In That They Are Beyond Our Grasp. Once We Are Even Marginally Separated From What We Can Touch, The Object Is Sanctified; It Acquires The Beauty Of The Unattainable, The Quality Of The Miraculous. Everything, Really, Has This Quality Of Sacredness, But We Can Desecrate It At A Touch. How Strange Man Is! His Touch Defiles And Yet He Contains The Source Of Miracles.

We Are Not Wounded So Deeply When Betrayed By The Things We Hope For As When Betrayed By Things We Try Our Best To Despise. In Such Betrayal Comes The Dagger In The Back.

Living Is Merely The Chaos Of Existence.

Real Danger Is Nothing More Than Just Living. Of Course, Living Is Merely The Chaos Of Existence, But More Than That It's A Crazy Mixed-up Business Of Dismantling Existence Instant By Instant To The Point Where The Original Chaos Is Restored, And Taking Strength From The Uncertainty And The Fear That Chaos Brings To Re-create Existence Instant By Instant. You Won't Find Another Job As Dangerous As That. There Isn't Any Fear In Existence Itself, Or Any Uncertainty, But Living Creates It.

Is There Not A Sort Of Remorse That Precedes Sin? Was It Remorse At The Very Fact That I Existed?