No Gunfire, Famine, Or Flies.

I Want Something Else. I'm Not Even Sure What To Call It Anymore Except I Know It Feels Roomy And It's Drenched In Sunlight And It's Weightless And I Know It's Not Cheap. Probably Not Even Real

Knowledge Is Hot Water On Wool. It Shrinks Time And Space.

Sublime Is Something You Choke On After A Shot Of Tequila.

Passion Has Little To Do With Euphoria And Everything To Do With Patience. It Is Not About Feeling Good. It Is About Endurance. Like Patience, Passion Comes From The Same Latin Root: Pati. It Does Not Mean To Flow With Exuberance. It Means To Suffer.

The Thread Has Snapped. No Sound Even To Mark The Breaking Let Alone The Fall. That Long Anticipated Disintegration, When The Darkest Angel Of All, The Horror Beyond All Horrors, Sits At Last Upon My Chest, Permanently Enfolding Me In Its Great Covering Wings, Black As Ink, Veined In Bees' Purple. A Creature Without A Voice. A Voice Without A Name. As Immortal As My Life. Come Here At Long Last To Summon The Wind.