Prayer Is A Practical Strategy,

I Long For The Days Of Disorder. I Want Them Back, The Days When I Was Alive On The Earth, Rippling In The Quick Of My Skin, Heedless And Real. I Was Dumb-muscled And Angry And Real. This Is What I Long For, The Breach Of Peace, The Days Of Disarray When I Walked Real Streets And Did Things Slap-bang And Felt Angry And Ready All The Time, A Danger To Others And A Distant Mystery To Myself.

A Writer Decides To Follow Some Ideas And Not Others For Reasons That Aren't Always Clear To Him. It's Often A Matter Of Intuition.

Ecology Is Boring For The Same Reason That Destruction Is Fun.

They Passed Out Of The Shade Beneath The Eaves And Flew Into Sunglare And Silence And It Was An Action She Only Partly Saw, Elusive And Mutely Beautiful, The Birds So Sunstruck They Were Consumed By Light, Disembodied, Turned Into Something Sheer And Fleet And Scatter-bright.

The Writer Is Driven By His Conviction That Some Truths Aren't Arrived At So Easily, That Life Is Still Full Of Mystery, That It Might Be Better For You, Dear Reader, If You Went Back To The Living Section Of Your Newspaper Because This Is The Dying Section And You Don't Really Want To Be Here.