My Hole Is Warm And Full Of

I Do Not Know If All Cops Are Poets, But I Know That All Cops Carry Guns With Triggers.

...and Yet I Am What They Think I Am.

Our Task, Then Always, Is To Challenge The Apparent Forms Of Reality-that Is, The Fixed Manner And Values Of The Few, And To Struggle With It Until It Reveals Its Mad, Vari-implicated Chaos, Its False Face, And So On Until It Surrenders Its Insight, Its Truth.

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.

In Order To Travel Far You Have To Be Detached.