War Is The Ultimate Realization Of Modern

I Long For The Days Of Disorder. I Want Them Back, The Days When I Was Alive On The Earth, Rippling In The Quick Of My Skin, Heedless And Real. I Was Dumb-muscled And Angry And Real. This Is What I Long For, The Breach Of Peace, The Days Of Disarray When I Walked Real Streets And Did Things Slap-bang And Felt Angry And Ready All The Time, A Danger To Others And A Distant Mystery To Myself.

Stories Have No Point If They Don't Absorb Our Terror.

Something Is Always Happening, Even On The Quietest Days And Deep Into The Night, If You Stand A While And Look.

People Hurried Past, The Others Of The Street, Endless Anonymous, Twenty-one Lives Per Second, Race-walking In Their Faces And Pigments, Sprays Of Fleetest Being.

I've Come To Think Of Europe As A Hardcover Book, America As The Paperback Version.