Our Ex-wifes Always Harbour Secrets About Us

Only Sometimes You Can't Feel Anything About A Subject Without Hypothesizing Its Extinction.

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.

Theres A Lot To Be Said For Doing What Youre Not Supposed To Do, And The Rewards Of Doing What Youre Supposed To Do Are More Subtle And Take Longer To Become Apparent, Which Maybe Makes It Less Attractive. But Your Life Is The Blueprint You Make After The Building Is Built.

Fear And Hope Are Alike Underneath.

Literature Should Not Be Exclusive, It Should Be Inclusive. My General View Is That You Can't, Based On Your Own Experience, Project What A Book Will Do For Someone Else. That's Why I Don't Review Books.