Writers, As They Gain Success, Feel Like

How Can So Much Beauty Hide Such A Bruised And Steely Heart, And Why Must I Love Him, Why Must I Lean In My Weariness Upon His Irresistible Yet Indomitable Strength? Is He Not The Wizend Funeral Spirit Of A Dead Man In A Child's Clothes?

He Had Never Expected Death To Be This Quiet, This Secretive, This Easy.

I Knelt And Prayed, And The Strongest Truth Came Over Me. Didn't Matter If God In His Heaven Was A Catholic Or A Protestant God, Or The God Of The Hindus. What Mattered Was Something Deeper And Older And More Powerful Than Any Such Image - It Was A Concept Of Goodness Based Upon The Affirmation Of Life, The Turning Away From Destruction, From The Perverse, From Man Using And Abusing Man. It Was The Affirmation Of The Human And The Natural.

Life Itself Must Be Founded Upon The Infinite Possibility For Choice And Accident. And If We Cannot Prove That It Is, We Must Believe That It Is. We Must Believe That We Can Change, That We Can Control, That We Can Direct Our Own Destinies.

From My Stone Pillow I Have Dreamed Dreams Of The Mortal World Above. I Have Heard Its Voices, Its New Music, As Lullabies As I Lie In My Grave. I Have Envisioned Its Fantastical Discoveries. I Have Known Its Courage In The Timeless Sanctum Of My Thoughts. And Though It Shuts Me Out With Its Dazzling Forms, I Long For One With The Strength To Roam It Fearlessly, To Ride The Devil's Road Through Its Heart.