They Plot, They Plot, Sleeping Or Afoot

Get Too Conceptual, Too Cute And Remote, And Your Characters Die On The Page.

Liebig Himself Seems To Have Occupied The Role Of A Gate, Or Sorting-demon, Such As His Younger Contemporary Clerk Maxwell Once Proposed, Helping To Concentrate Energy Into One Favored Room Of The Creation At The Expense Of Everything Else.

It's Been A Prevalent Notion. Fallen Sparks. Fragments Of Vessels Broken At The Creation. And Someday, Somehow, Before The End, A Gathering Back To Home. A Messenger From The Kingdom, Arriving At The Last Moment. But I Tell You There Is No Such Message, No Such Home -- Only The Millions Of Last Moments . . . Nothing More. Our History Is An Aggregate Of Last Moments.

Love With Your Mouth Shut, Help Without Breaking Your Ass Or Publicizing It: Keep Cool, But Care.

Let Me Be Unambiguous. I Prefer Not To Be Photographed.