The Hand Of Providence Creeps

It Takes, Unhappily, No More Than A Desk And Writing Supplies To Turn Any Room Into A Confessional.

It All Comes Down, As It Must, To The Desires Of Individual Men. Oh, And Women Too Of Course, Bless Their Empty Little Heads.

Some Of Us Are Afraid Of Dying; Others Of Human Loneliness. Profane Was Afraid Of Land Or Seascapes Like This, Where Nothing Else Lived But Himself.

He Was Visited On A Lunar Basis By These Great Unspecific Waves Of Horniness, Whereby All Women Within A Certain Age Group And Figure Envelope Became Immediately And Impossibly Desirable. He Emerged From These Spells With Eyeballs Still Oscillating And A Wish That His Neck Could Rotate Through The Full 360 Degrees.

But With A Sigh He Had Released Her Hand, While She Was So Lost In The Fantasy That She Hadn't Felt It Go Away, As If He'd Known The Best Moment To Let Go.