We Must All Make Do With The

They Will Be Like Shadows, They Will Be Like Wraiths, Gray Members Of A Congregation Of Nightmare; Hark! His Long Wavering Howl . . . An Aria Of Fear Made Audible. The Wolfsong Is The Sound Of The Rending You Will Suffer, In Itself A Murdering.

Reciprocity Of Sensation Is Not Possible Because To Share Is To Be Robbed.

And, Indeed, Is There Not Something Holy About A Great Kitchen?... The Scoured Gleam Of Row Upon Row Of Metal Vessels Dangling From Hooks Or Reposing On Their Shelves Till Needed With The Air Of So Many Chalices Waiting For The Celebration Of The Sacrament Of Food. And The Range Like An Altar, Yes, Before Which My Mother Bowed In Perpetual Homage, A Fringe Of Sweat Upon Her Upper Lip And The Fire Glowing In Her Cheeks.

There Is A Striking Resemblance Between The Act Of Love And The Ministrations Of A Torturer.

Strangers Used To Gather Together At The Cinema And Sit Together In The Dark, Like Ancient Greeks Participating In The Mysteries, Dreaming The Same Dream In Unison.