We Look Too Much To Museums. The

Injustice Wears Ever The Same Harsh Face Wherever It Shows Itself.

The Act Of Writing Requires A Constant Plunging Back Into The Shadow Of The Past Where Time Hovers Ghostlike.

So Why Do I Write, Torturing Myself To Put It Down? Because In Spite Of Myself I've Learned Some Things. Without The Possibility Of Action, All Knowledge Comes To One Labeled "file And Forget," And I Can Neither File Nor Forget. Nor Will Certain Ideas Forget Me; They Keep Filing Away At My Lethargy, My Complacency. Why Should I Be The One To Dream This Nightmare?

I Am Invisible, Understand, Simply Because People Refuse To See Me.

America Is Woven Of Many Strands. I Would Recognize Them And Let It So Remain.