The Smiths Are Singing And

She Sits Before Me, Sullen But Hopeful, Characterless, About To Dissolve Into Tears. I Squeeze Her Hand Back, Moved, No, Touched By Her Ignorance Of Evil. She Has One More Test To Pass. Do You Own A Briefcase?” I Ask Her, Swallowing.

My Pain Is Constant And Sharp, And I Do Not Hope For A Better World For Anyone.

I Had Dreamed Of Something So Different From What Reality Was Now Offering Up, But That Dream Had Been A Blind Man's Vision. That Dream Was A Miracle. The Morning Was Fading. And I Remembered Yet Again That I Was A Tourist Here.

History Is Sinking And Only A Very Few Seem Dimly Aware That Things Are Getting Bad.

I Felt Lethal, On The Verge Of Frenzy. My Nightly Bloodlust Overflowed Into My Days And I Had To Leave The City. My Mask Of Sanity Was A Victim Of Impending Slippage. This Was The Bone Season For Me And I Needed A Vacation.