This Is The Generation Whose First Cry

All The Literati Keep At Least One Imaginary Friend.

As Failures Go, Attempting To Recall The Past Is Like Trying To Grasp The Meaning Of Existence. Both Make One Feel Like A Baby Clutching At A Basketball: One's Palms Keep Sliding Off.

The Eye Identifies Itself Not With The Body It Belongs To But With The Object Of Its Attention.

In The End, Like The Almighty Himself, We Make Everything In Our Image, For Want Of A More Reliable Model; Our Artifacts Tell More About Ourselves Than Our Confessions.

I Don't Want To Dive Into That Mud Slide, Which Is What I Consider The Literary Process.