Words Were Like Objects, Making

There Is A Certain Solipsism To Serious Illness Which Claims All Of One's Attention As Certainly As An Astronomical Black Hole Seizes Anything Unlucky Enough To Fall Within Its Critical Radius.

Words Are The Light And Sound Of Our Existence, The Heat Lightning By Which The Night Is Illuminated.

All Violence Flows From The Same Source ... The Need For Power. Power Is The Only True Morality ... The Only Deathless God, And The Appetite For Violence Is Its Only Commandment.

Belief In One's Identity As A Poet Or Writer Prior To The Acid Test Of Publication Is As Naive And Harmless As The Youthful Belief In One's Immortality... And The Inevitable Disillusionment Is Just As Painful.

Lovemaking Seems All Too Absurd When Described.