Where There Is Chance Of

I Have Discovered That Most People Have No One To Talk To, No One, That Is, Who Really Wants To Listen. When It Does At Last Dawn On A Man That You Really Want To Hear About His Business, The Look That Comes Over His Face Is Something To See.

Why Is It That One Can Look At A Lion Or A Planet Or An Owl Or At Someone's Finger As Long As One Pleases, But Looking Into The Eyes Of Another Person Is, If Prolonged Past A Second, A Perilous Affair?

Fiction Doesn’t Tell Us Something We Don’t Know, It Tells Us Something We Know But Don’t Know That We Know.

The Present Age Is Demented. It Is Possessed By A Sense Of Dislocation, A Loss Of Personal Identity, An Alternating Sentimentality And Rage Which, In An Individual Patient, Could Be Characterized As Dementia.

Classes? Categories? Was That What We Had Come To?