Their Monument Sticks Like A

I'm Sure That Writing Isn't A Craft, That Is, Something For Which You Learn The Skills And Go On Turning Out. It Must Come From Some Deep Impulse, Deep Inspiration. That Can't Be Taught, It Can't Be What You Use In Teaching.

In The End, Every Hypochondriac Is His Own Prophet.

It's The Light Of The Oncoming Train.

Their Monument Sticks Like A Fishbone In The City's Throat.

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone