Writing About The Unholy Is One Way

How Many Human Eyes...had Snatched Glimpses Of Their Secret Anatomies, Down The Passage Of Years?

I Can See In Your Eyes That There’s No Seam Of Untapped Joy Left In You. The Best Of Life Has Come And Gone. Those Days When Sudden Epiphanies Swept Over You, And You Had Visions Of The Rightness Of All Things And Of Your Place Amongst Them; They’re History. You’re In A Darker Place Now.

We Each Die Countless Little Deaths On Our Way To The Last. We Die Out Of Shame As Humiliation. We Perish From Despair. And, Of Course, We Die For Love.

Zombies Are The Liberal Nightmare. Here You Have The Masses, Whom You Would Love To Love, Appearing At Your Front Door With Their Faces Falling Off; And You're Trying To Be As Humane As You Possibly Can, But They Are, After All, Eating The Cat. And The Fear Of Mass Activity, Of Mindlessness On A National Scale, Underlies My Fear Of Zombies.

And In Time It Will Be As Though Men Had Never Come To This Perfect Corner Of The World-never Called It Paradise On Earth, Never Despoiled It With Their Dream Factories; And In The Golden Hush Of The Afternoon All That Will Be Heard Will Be The Flittering Of Dragonflies, And The Murmur Of Hummingbirds As They Pass From Bower To Bower, Looking For A Place To Sup Sweetness.