Perhaps Misguided Moral Passion Is Better Than

Trains Induce Such Terrible Anxiety. They Image The Possibility Of Total And Irrevocable Failure. They Are Also Dirty, Rackety, Packed With Strangers, An Object Lesson In The Foul Contingency Of Life: The Talkative Fellow-traveller, The Possibility Of Children.

No Love Is Entirely Without Worth, Even When The Frivolous Calls To The Frivolous And The Base To The Base.

Our Destiny Can Be Examined, But It Cannot Be Justified Or Totally Explained. We Are Simply Here.

Upon The Demon-ridden Pilgrimage Of Human Life, What Next I Wonder.

All Art Is The Struggle To Be, In A Particular Sort Of Way, Virtuous.