When Tempest Tossed, Embrace Chaos

I Can Love October In September. September Doesn’t Care.

I Admit To Having An Imagination Feverish Enough To Melt Good Judgment.

The Hands Of Every Clock Are Shears, Trimming Us Away Scrap By Scrap, And Every Time Piece With A Digital Readout Blinks Us Towards Implosion.

Books Are Packaged Dreams.

Only The Human Spirit Can Act With Volition And Consciously Change Itself; It Is The Only Thing In All Creation That Is Not Entirely At The Mercy Of Forces Outside Itself.