If America Was A Person,

The Hand Of Providence Creeps Among The Stars, Giving Slothrop The Finger.

Every Weirdo In The World Is On My Wavelength.

What Goes Around May Come Around, But It Never Ends Up Exactly The Same Place, You Ever Notice? Like A Record On A Turntable, All It Takes Is One Groove's Difference And The Universe Can Be On Into A Whole 'nother Song.

Idle Dreaming Is Often Of The Essence Of What We Do.

It Is A Curve Each Of Them Feels, Unmistakably. It Is The Parabola. They Must Have Guessed, Once Or Twice - Guessed And Refused To Believe - That Everything, Always, Collectively, Had Been Moving Toward That Purified Shape Latent In The Sky, That Shape Of No Surprise, No Second Chance, No Return. Yet They Do Move Forever Under It, Reserved For Its Own Black-and-white Bad News Certainly As If It Were The Rainbow, And They Its Children...