Personally I Have No Bone To Pick

Was I Asleep? Had I Slept?

Enough To Know No Knowing.

You Cried For Night - It Falls. Now Cry In Darkness.

I Had Seen Faces In Photographs I Might Have Found Beautiful Had I Known Even Vaguely In What Beauty Was Supposed To Consist. And My Father's Face, On His Death-bolster, Had Seemed To Hint At Some Form Of Aesthetics Relevant To Man. But The Faces Of The Living, All Grimace And Flush, Can They Be Described As Objects?

An Imaginative Adventure Does Not Enjoy The Same Corsets As Reportage.