I've Been Writing Every Day Of My

We Have Our Arts So We Won't Die Of Truth.

The Huge Round Lunar Clock Was A Gristmill. Shake Down All The Grains Of Time—the Big Grains Of Centuries, And The Small Grains Of Years, And The Tiny Grains Of Hours And Minutes—and The Clock Pulverized Them, Slid Time Silently Out In All Directions In A Fine Pollen, Carried By Cold Winds To Blanket The Town Like Dust, Everywhere. Spores From That Clock Lodged In Your Flesh To Wrinkle It, To Grow Bones To Monstrous Size, To Burst Feet From Shoes Like Turnips. Oh, How That Great Machine…dispensed Time In Blowing Weathers.

I'll Hold On To The World Tight Some Day. I've Got One Finger On It Now; That's A Beginning.

Recreate The World In Your Own Image And Make It Better For Your Having Been Here.

Disbelief Is Catching. It Rubs Off On People.