It Is Easier To Tell

We Humans Seem Disastrously In Love With This Thing (whatever It Is) That Glitters On The Earth-- We Call It Life.

The Man Has A Theory. The Woman Has Hipbones. Here Comes Death.

We're Talking About The Struggle To Drag A Thought Over From The Mush Of The Unconscious Into Some Kind Of Grammar, Syntax, Human Sense; Every Attempt Means Starting Over With Language. Starting Over With Accuracy.

Time Isn't Made Of Anything. It Is An Abstraction. Just A Meaning That We Impose Upon Motion.

Sometimes A Journey Makes Itself Necessary.