A Map Is The Dead Body Of

I'll Never Retire. They'll Have To Take My Computer Out Of My Cold, Dead Hands. I'm Addicted To Writing. I Feel Physically Unwell If I'm Not Doing It.

Is There An Existence That Is Only Mine?

More And More I'm Aware That The Permutations Are Not Unlimited.

There Are Situations In Life To Which The Only Satisfactory Response Is A Physically Violent One. If You Don't Make That Response, You Continually Relive The Unresolved Situation Over And Over In Your Life.

Too-lateness, I Realized, Has Nothing To Do With Age. It’s A Relation Of Self To The Moment. Or Not, Depending On The Person And The Moment. Perhaps There Even Comes A Time When It’s No Longer Too Late For Anything. Perhaps, Even, Most Times Are Too Early For Most Things, And Most Of Life Has To Go By Before It’s Time For Almost Anything And Too Late For Almost Nothing. Nothing To Lose, The Present Moment To Gain, The Integration With Long-delayed Now.