The Imagination Can Be Dangerous. It Can

And Still The Brain Continues To Yearn, Continues To Burn, Foolishly, With Desire. My Old Man's Brain Is Mocked By A Body That Still Longs To Stretch In The Sun And Form A Beautiful Shape In Someone Else's Gaze, To Lie Under A Blue Sky And Dream Of Helpless, Selfless Love, To Behold Itself, Illuminated, In The Golden Light Of Another's Eyes.

Accept Love Instinctively, Without Responsibility Or Conditions.

Somewhere Along The Line I'd Lost The Will Not To Eat.

The Facts Of His Existence Are Plain. I Know That He Will Never Silence Those Unspeakable Voices. He Heard How People Killed, And How They Died And Their Voices Infected Him, Coursed Through His Body, Poisoned Him. He Didn't Know How To Turn Off The Noise, Or Turn The Hate Back Out Onto The World Like The Rest Of Us. He Turned It On Himself. You Could See That From The Scars On Him.

But All I Could Think Was In New York That Kid Would Have Been Stuck In A Straitjacket Practically From Birth And Dangled Over A Tank Full Of Educational Consultants And Remedial Experts All Snapping At His Ankles For The Next Twenty Years Arguing About His Special Needs And Getting Paid Plenty For It.