When People Are Serving, Life Is No

Art Gropes. It Stalks Like A Hunter Lost In The Woods, Listening To Itself And To Everything Around It, Unsure Of Itself, Waiting To Pounce.

What Art Ought To Do Is Tell Stories Which Are Moment-by-moment Wonderful, Which Are True To Human Experience, And Which In No Way Explain Human Experience.

I Cannot Believe Such Monstrous Energy Of Grief Can Lead To Nothing!

It Would Be, For Me, Mere Pointless Pleasure, An Illusion Of Order For This One Frail, Foolish, Flicker-flash In The Long Dull Fall Of Eternity.

Talking, Talking. Spinning A Web Of Words, Pale Walls Of Dreams, Between Myself And All I See.