Words Are Your Business, Boy.

America Is Woven Of Many Strands. I Would Recognise Them And Let It So Remain. Our Fate Is To Become One, And Yet Many. This Is Not Prophecy, But Description.

God Is Love, I Said, But Art's The Possibility Of Forms, And Shadows Are The Source Of Identity.

I Feel The Need To Reaffirm All Of It, The Whole Unhappy Territory And All The Things Loved And Unloveable In It, For It Is All Part Of Me.

So Why Do I Write, Torturing Myself To Put It Down? Because In Spite Of Myself I've Learned Some Things. Without The Possibility Of Action, All Knowledge Comes To One Labeled "file And Forget," And I Can Neither File Nor Forget. Nor Will Certain Ideas Forget Me; They Keep Filing Away At My Lethargy, My Complacency. Why Should I Be The One To Dream This Nightmare?

Had The Price Of Looking Been Blindness, I Would Have Looked.