The Present Age Is Demented. It Is

Nothing Remains But Desire, And Desire Comes Howling Down Elysian Fields Like A Mistral.

You Live In A Deranged Age, More Deranged Than Usual Because In Spite Of Great Scientific And Technological Advances, Man Has Not The Faintest Idea Of Who He Is Or What He Is Doing.

A Repetition Is The Re-enactment Of Past Experience Toward The End Of Isolating The Time Segment Which Has Lapsed In Order That It, The Lapsed Time, Can Be Savored Of Itself And Without The Usual Adulteration Of Events That Clog Time Like Peanuts In Brittle.

Nobody But A Southerner Knows The Wrenching Rinsing Sadness Of The Cities Of The North.

Life Is Fits And Starts, Mostly Fits.