The Self Forms At The Edge Of

I Do Think I Have An Ability To Record Sensual And Emotional Facts And Factoids, To Construct A Convincing Surface Of What Life Feels Like, Both Physical Life And Emotional Life.

Small, Red, And Upright He Waited, Gripping His New Bookbag Tight In One Hand And Touching A Lucky Penny Inside His Coat Pocket With The Other, While The First Snows Of Winter Floated Down On His Eyelashes And Covered The Branches Around Him And Silenced All Trace Of The World.

Now Every Mortal Has Pain And Sweat Is Constant, But If There Is Anything Dearer Than Being Alive, It's Dark To Me. We Humans Seem Disastrously In Love With This Thing (whatever It Is) That Glitters On The Earth-- We Call It Life. We Know No Other. The Underworld's A Blank And All The Rest Just Fantasy.

The Presocratic Problem [all Snap Flags] Parmenides Named His Gun The Hot Power Of The Stars. His Gun Was One, Uncreated, Imperishable, Timeless, Changeless, Perfect, Spherical. Spherical Was The Problem.

We're Talking About The Struggle To Drag A Thought Over From The Mush Of The Unconscious Into Some Kind Of Grammar, Syntax, Human Sense; Every Attempt Means Starting Over With Language. Starting Over With Accuracy.