Habit Is The Ballast That

Dance First. Think Later. It's The Natural Order.

You're On Earth. There's No Cure For That.

To Every Man His Little Cross. Till He Dies. And Is Forgotten.

Reality, Whether Approached Imaginatively Or Empirically, Remains A Surface, Hermetic.

Nothing Matters But The Writing. There Has Been Nothing Else Worthwhile... A Stain Upon The Silence.