Porches Are America's Lost Rooms.

We Are All Proprietary Toward Cities We Love. 'ah, You Should Have Seen Her When I Loved Her!' We Say, Reciting Glories Since Faded Or Defiled, Trusting Her To No One Else; That Others Should Know And Love Her In Her Present Fallen State (for She Must Fall Without Our Vigilant Love) Is A Species Of Betrayal.

Desire Creates Its Own Object.

Grief Does Not End And Love Does Not Die And Nothing Fills Its Graven Place. With Grace, Pain Is Transmuted Into The Gold Of Wisdom And Compassion And The Lesser Coin Of Muted Sadness And Resignation; But Something Leaden Of It Remains, To Become The Kernel Arond Which More Pain Accretes (a Black Pearl): One Pain Becomes Every Other Pain ... Unless One Strips Away, One By One, The Layers Of Pain To Get To The Heart Of The Pain - And This Causes More Pain, Pain So Intense As To Feel Like Evisceration.

Persecution Always Acts As A Jell For Members Of Cults; It Proves To Them, In The Absence Of History, Liturgy, Tradition, And Doctrine, That They Are God's Chosen.

Fantasies Are More Than Substitutes For Unpleasant Reality; They Are Also Dress Rehearsals, Plans. All Acts Performed In The World Begin In The Imagination.