I'm An American. We're A

One Develops An Instinct For Letting Silence Do The Heavy Lifting. In The Three, Four, Five Seconds That Passed Without Either Of Us Speaking, The Many Ways The Conversation Could Go Came And Went Like Time-lapse Film Of Flowers Blooming And Dying.

You Can't Blame Me. I Mean That Literally. You're Incapable Of Blaming Me. You're Human. Being Human Is Choosing Freedom Over Imprisonment, Autonomy Over Dependency, Liberty Over Servitude. You Can't Blame Me Because You Know (come On, Man, You've Always Known) That The Idea Of Spending Eternity With Nothing To Do Except Praise God Is Utterly Unappealing. You'd Be Catatonic After An Hour. Heaven's A Swiz Because To Get In You Have To Leave Yourself Outside. You Can't Blame Me Because -- Now Do Please Be Honest With Yourself For Once -- You'd Have Left, Too.

Your Ideal Possession Candidate's A Thirteen-year-old Recently Orphaned Schizophrenic Girl Three Days Away From Her Period On Her Way To See The Shrink With Whom She's Romantically Besotted.

I Hated The Words. Each One Was Like A Big Live Insect In My Mouth.

Life Compulsively Dangled The Possibility Of Life. Life, The Dramatist On Speed. Life, That Couldn't Stop With Its Foreshadows And Ironies And Symbols And Clues, Its Wretched Jokes And False Endings And Twists. Life With Its Hopeless Addiction To Plot.