They Plot, They Plot, Sleeping Or Afoot

It All Comes Down, As It Must, To The Desires Of Individual Men. Oh, And Women Too Of Course, Bless Their Empty Little Heads.

Someday It'll All Be Done By Machine. Information Machines.

All Investigations Of Time, However Sophisticated Or Abstract, Have At Their True Base The Human Fear Of Mortality.

Laboring Through A World Every Day More Stultified, Which Expected Salvation In Codes And Governments, Ever More Willing To Settle For Suburban Narratives And Diminished Payoffs--what Were The Chances Of Finding Anyone Else Seeking To Transcend That, And Not Even Particularly Aware Of It?

I Came," She Said, "hoping You Could Talk Me Out Of A Fantasy." Cherish It!" Cried Hilarious, Fiercely. "what Else Do Any Of You Have? Hold It Tightly By It's Little Tentacle, Don't Let The Freudians Coax It Away Or The Pharmacists Poison It Out Of You. Whatever It Is, Hold It Dear, For When You Lose It You Go Over By That Much To The Others. You Begin To Cease To Be.