There Is No Limit To Desire But

They Watch On, Evil, Incredibly Stupid, Enjoying My Destruction. 'poor Grendel's Had An Accident,' I Whisper. 'so May You All.

Art Gropes. It Stalks Like A Hunter Lost In The Woods, Listening To Itself And To Everything Around It, Unsure Of Itself, Waiting To Pounce.

When People Are Serving, Life Is No Longer Meaningless.

What Art Ought To Do Is Tell Stories Which Are Moment-by-moment Wonderful, Which Are True To Human Experience, And Which In No Way Explain Human Experience.

I Couldn't Go On, Too Conscious All At Once Of My Whispering, My Eternal Posturing, Always Transforming The World With Words--changing Nothing.