My Hole Is Warm And Full Of

The Thing To Do Is To Exploit The Meaning Of The Life You Have.

That Which We Remember Is, More Often Than Not, That Which We Would Like To Have Been; Or That Which We Hope To Be. Thus Our Memory And Our Identity Are Ever At Odds; Our History Ever A Tale Told By Inattentive Idealists.

Man's Hope Can Paint A Purple Picture, Can Transform A Soaring Vulture Into A Noble Eagle Or Moaning Dove.

Perhaps Everyone Loved Someone; I Didn't Now, I Couldn't Give Much Thought To Love; In Order To Travel Far You Had To Be Detached, And I Had The Long Road Back To The Campus Before Me.

I Am Invisible, Understand, Simply Because People Refuse To See Me. Like The Bodiless Heads You See Sometimes In Circus Sideshows, It Is As Though I Have Been Surrounded By Mirrors Of Hard, Distorting Glass. When They Approach Me They See Only My Surroundings, Themselves Or Figments Of Their Imagination, Indeed, Everything And Anything Except Me.