When I'm Writing Solitude Feels

I’d Spent My Whole Life Waiting To Awake On An Ordinary Morning In The Town That Was Destined To Be My Home, In The Arms Of The Woman I Was Destined To Love, Knowing The People And Doing The Work That Would Make Up The Changing But Essentially Invariable Landscape Of My Particular Destiny.

Nothing That Had Ever Happened To Him, Not The Shooting Of Oyster, Or The Piteous Muttering Expiration Of John Wesley Shannenhouse, Or The Death Of His Father, Or Internment Of His Mother And Grandfather, Not Even The Drowning Of His Beloved Brother, Had Ever Broken His Heart Quite As Terribly As The Realization, When He Was Halfway To The Rimed Zinc Hatch Of The German Station, That He Was Hauling A Corpse Behind Him

Every Generation Loses The Messiah It Has Failed To Deserve.

He Was A Fugitive, Lurking Soul, James Leer. He Didn't Belong Anywhere, But Things Went Much Better For Him In Places Where Nobody Belonged.

It Was Nice Standing Out In The Darkness, In The Damp Grass, With Spring Coming On And A Feeling In My Heart Of Imminent Disaster.