I've Imagined Great Victories, And

Rigel, Betelgeuse, And Orion. There Was No Finer Church, No Finer Choir, Than The Stars Speaking In Silence To The Many Consumptives Silently Condemned, A Legion Upon The Dark Rooftops. The Wind Came Down From The North Like A Runner In Lacrosse, Violent And Hard, To Batter Every Living Thing. They Were There, Each One Alone In Conversation With The Stars, Mining Ephemeral Love From Cold And Distant Light.

The Voodoo Priest And All His Powders Were As Nothing Compared To Espresso, Cappuccino, And Mocha, Which Are Stronger Than All The Religions Of The World Combined, And Perhaps Stronger Than The Human Soul Itself.

She Died On A Windy Gray Day In March When The Sky Was Full Of Darting Crows And The World Lay Prostrate And Defeated After Winter. Peter Lake Was At Her Side And It Ruined Him Forever. It Broke Him As He Had Not Ever Imagined He Could Have Been Broken. He Would Never Again Be Young, Or Able To Remember What It Was Like To Be Young. What He Had Once Taken To Be Pleasures Would Appear To Him In His Defeat As Hideous And Deserved Punishments For Reckless Vanity.

They Were Dancing Around The Fountain, Arm In Arm, In An Old Dutch Dance, Their Cheeks Touching, Their Hands Entwined. They Had No Music; They Hummed. And There Was No Reason For Them To Be Dancing That Peter Lake Could See, Except That It Was An Exceptionally Beautiful Night.

If Nothing Is Random, And Everything Is Predetermined, How Can There Be Free Will? The Answer To That Is Simple. Nothing Is Predetermined; It Is Determined, Or Was Determined, Or Will Be Determined.