The Novel Is A Game Or Joke

No, The Point Is Not Only Does Time Fly And Do We Die, But That In These Reckless Conditions We Live At All, And Are Vouchsafed, For The Duration Of Certain Inexplicable Moments, To Know It.

Self-consciousness Is The Curse Of The City And All That Sophistication Implies.

What Could You Say To A Dying Person That Would Not Enrage By Its Triviality?

Skin Was Earth; It Was Soil. I Could See, Even On My Own Skin, The Joined Trapezoids Of Dust Specks God Had Wetted And Stuck With His Spit The Morning He Made Adam From Dirt. Now, All These Generations Later, We People Could Still See On Our Skin The Inherited Prints Of The Dust Specks Of Eden.

Adverbs Are A Sign That You've Used The Wrong Verb.