Life Is Hell, But At Least There

Writing An Autobiography, Usually Thought Of As A Looking Back, Can Just As Well Be A Looking Across Or Through, With The Passing Of Time Giving An X-ray Quality To The Eye.

It Would Be Nice To Travel If You Knew Where You Were Going And Where You Would Live At The End Or Do We Ever Know, Do We Ever Live Where We Live, We're Always In Other Places, Lost, Like Sheep.

The Strain Of Constant Adaptation To So Many Fearful Events And Discoveries Is Already Too Much To Bear With Sanity; One Has To Keep Pretending To Slip Successfully Into The New Mould; A Time Will Come When The Tailored And Camouflaged Mind Breaks Beneath The Burden; The Stick Insect In Our Brains No Longer Cares To Resemble A Twig On The Same Habitual Human Tree In The Mere Hope That It May Survive Extinction.

They Think I'm Going To Be A Schoolteacher But I'm Going To Be A Poet.

It Is Always Hard To Believe That The Will To Change Something Does Not Produce An Immediate Change.