All Over The World Today, Not Just

Someone Dying Asks If There Is Life After Death. Yes, Comes The Answer, Only Not Yours.

Most People Are Quiet In The World, And Live In It Tentatively, As If It Were Not Their Own.

Banks And Churches And Courtrooms All Depend On The Appurtenances Of Theatre. On Illusion. Banks, The Illusion Of Stability And Honourable Dealings To The Rot And Corruption Of Capitalist Exploitation. Churches The Illusion Of Sacred Sanctuary Of Purposes Of Pacifying Social Discontent. Courtrooms Of Course Designed To Promote The Illusion Of Solemn Justice. If There Was True Justice Why Would Such Trappings Be Necessary? Wouldn't A Table And Chairs And An Ordinary Room Serve Just As Well?

There Are Moments When I Cannot Bear This Unremitting Consciousness. It Knows Only Itself. Awake, I Am In A Continuum With My Dreams. I Feel My Typewriters, My Table, My Chair To Have That Assurance Of A Solid World, Where Things Take Up Space, Where Is Not The Endless Emptiness Of Insubstantial Thought That Leads To Nowhere But Itself. My Memories Pale As I Prevail Upon Them Again And Again. They Become More And More Ghostly. I Fear Nothing So Much As Losing Them Altogether And Having Only My Blank Endless Mind To Live In.

I've Known Several Cases Of Writers Who Decide To Write About Something And They Research The Hell Out Of It And When They're Ready To Write, They Can't Move Because They Are So Burdened. I Start Writing. Whatever I Need Somehow Comes To Hand.