Until Only Infinity Remained Of

The Facts Of History Have Been Too Well Rehearsed.

Part Of The Strength Of Pollock And Rothko's Art, In Fact, Is This Doubt As To Whether Art May Be There At All.

You Stupefied Me. We Waxed, Carnivores, Late And Alight In The Beaded Winter. All Was Ominous, Luminous.

I Am Often Asked Why I Write, And I Don't Know Really--i Just Want To.

Death Is A New Office Building Filled With Modern Furniture, A Wise Thing, But Which Has No Purpose For Us.