You Can Always Count On A Murderer

The Summer Night Was Starless And Stirless, With Distant Spasms Of Silent Lightning.

Memory Overshadows The Present And Dims The Future "into Something Thicker Than Its Usual Pea Soup."

The Days Of My Youth, As I Look Back On Them, Seem To Fly Away From Me In A Flurry Of Pale Repetitive Scraps Like Those Morning Snow Storms Of Used Tissue Paper That A Train Passenger Sees Whirling In The Wake Of The Observation Car.

Maybe The Only Thing That Hints At A Sense Of Time Is Rhythm; Not The Recurrent Beats Of The Rhythm But The Gap Between Two Such Beats, The Gray Gap Between Black Beats: The Tender Interval.

A Writer Should Have The Precision Of A Poet And The Imagination Of A Scientist.