La Guerre, La Guerre, Everything

[when] He's Here, He's Always Reading. He Says Books Stop Time. I Myself Think He's Crazy...don't Tell Anyone, But When He Reads Something That He Likes He Gets Real Happy, Turns On The Music, And Dances By Himself, Or With A Broom Sometimes.

We Launch Our Souls From The Cannons Of Art And Discipline, And On Any One Night, Hovering Over The Chimney Tops Of Europe, Halfway To The Stars, There Are Armies Of Brightly Spinning Spirits That Have Risen Like Fireworks, Tethered To The Souls Of Those Men And Women Who, By Reflection, Mortification, And Devotion, Effortlessly Outdazzle Kings.

Marxists Are People Whose Insides Are Torn Up Day After Day Because They Want To Rule The World And No One Will Even Publish Their Letter To The Editor.

Lonely People Have Enthusiasms Which Cannot Always Be Explained. When Something Strikes Them As Funny, The Intensity And Length Of Their Laughter Mirrors The Depth Of Their Loneliness, And They Are Capable Of Laughing Like Hyenas. When Something Touches Their Emotions, It Runs Through Them Like Paul Revere, Awakening Feelings That Gather Into Great Armies.

Perhaps Passing Through The Gates Of Death Is Like Passing Quietly Through The Gate In A Pasture Fence. On The Other Side, You Keep Walking, Without The Need To Look Back. No Shock, No Drama, Just The Lifting Of A Plank Or Two In A Simple Wooden Gate In A Clearing. Neither Pain, Nor Floods Of Light, Nor Great Voices, But Just The Silent Crossing Of A Meadow.