Only Sometimes You Can't Feel Anything About

I've Been Mainly A Happy Boy In My Life. I Married The Right Girl And We Did What We Wanted To Do.

Even Though I Get A Lot Done With My Solitude, And I Make The Best Use Of It Possible, I Always Think Solitude Is An Interlude In A Period Of Time, Which Is Populated By Others.

If Trump Was Just A Piddly-ass Little Hotel Owner Some Place, Having The Kind Of Character And Manners That He Has, He Would Not Be Worth Our Notice. But Because He's Now Been Based To This Huge Stage, Then His Dimensions Become Immense. He's Not A Tragic Figure Because He Doesn't Have The Capacity To Be Tragic. But The Consequences Of His Life And His Self Now Are Immense; They're Threatening To The World And To The Sanctity Of Human Life.

Things You Did. Things You Never Did. Things You Dreamed. After A Long Time They Run Together.

Construed As Turf, Home Just Seems A Provisional Claim, A Designation You Make Upon A Place, Not One It Makes On You. A Certain Set Of Buildings, A Glimpsed, Smudged Window-view Across A Schoolyard, A Musty Aroma Sniffed Behind A Garage When You Were A Child, All Of Which Come Crowding In Upon Your Latter-day Senses -- Those Are Pungent Things And Vivid, Even Consoling. But To Me They Are Also Inert And Nostalgic And Unlikely To Connect You To The Real, To That Essence Art Can Sometimes Achieve, Which Is Permanence.