They Don't Ask Much Of

I Have Been Writing In Spurts, Bit By Bit. It Is Incredibly Difficult. Everything Is Corroded, Broken, Dismantled; Everything Is Covered With Hardened Layers Of Accumulated Insensitivity, Deafness, Entrenched Routine. It Is Disgusting.

But What Are Pity, Conscience, Or Fear To The Brazen Pair, Compared With The Living Sorcery Of Their Hot Embraces?

Oh, What A Love It Was, Utterly Free, Unique, Like Nothing Else On Earth! Their Thoughts Were Like Other People's Songs.

Only The Solitary Seek The Truth, And They Break With All Those Who Don't Love It Sufficiently

I Hate Everything You Say, But Not Enough To Kill You For It.