The Strain Of Constant Adaptation To So

Death Is A Dramatic Accomplishment Of Absence; Language May Be Almost As Effective.

The Idea Was To Have A Basin Inverted On His Head And His Hair Cut To The Shape Of It. Skill And Money Were Not Needed. Then The Idea Grew That It Was More Convenient To Leave The Basin On His Head. Stray Thoughts Were Trimmed Along With Stray Hair; Brain-vines, Tentacles Of Thought, Were Not Encouraged To Wander. Then, In The Interests Of Human Economy, The Head Of Adaptable Man Became A Basin Of Uniform Shape—a Basin, A Crash Helmet. Safe At Last; No More Thought-cuts.

[...] A Morass Of Despair Violence Death With A Thin Layer Of Glass Spread Upon The Surface Where Love, A Tiny Crab With Pincers And Rainbow Shell, Walked Delicately Ever Sideways But Getting Nowhere, While The Sun [...] Rose Higher In The Sky Its Tassels Dropping With Flame Threatening Every Moment To Melt The Precarious Highway Of Glass. And The People: Giant Pathworks Of Colour With Limbs Missing And Parts Of Their Mind Snipped Off To Fit Them Into The Outline Of The Free Pattern.

Language, At Least, May Give Up The Secrets Of Life And Death, Leading Us Through The Maze To The Original Word As Monster Or Angel, To The Mournful Place Where We May Meet Job And Hear His Cry, 'how Long Will You Vex My Soul And Break Me In Pieces With Words?

Conversation Is The Wall We Build Between Ourselves And Other People, Too Often With Tired Words Like Used And Broken Bottles Which, Catching The Sunlight As They Lie Embedded In The Wall, Are Mistaken For Jewels.