... There Was An Honesty

That's The World Out There, Little Green Apples And Infectious Disease.

The True Life Is Not Reducible To Words Spoken Or Written, Not By Anyone, Ever.

We Commit Our Crimes At Night And Reveal Ourselves In The High Noon Of Studio Lights.

To Be A Tourist Is To Escape Accountability.

It Was The Time Of Year, The Time Of Day, For A Small Insistent Sadness To Pass Into The Texture Of Things. Dusk, Silence, Iron Chill. Something Lonely In The Bone.