Is Death That Which Gives Meaning To

Now, Here Is The Point About The Self: It Is Insatiable. It Is Always, Always Hankering. It Is What You Might Call Rapacious To A Fault. The Great Flaming Mouth To The Thing Is Never In This World Going To Be Stuff Full.

As Jules Renard Said, No Matter How Much Care An Author Takes To Write As Few Books As Possible, There Will Be People Who Haven't Heard Of Some Of Them.

--why Are We Fighting Them? --they're Mad. We're Sane. --how Do We Know? --that We're Sane? --yes. --am I Sane? --to All Appearances. --and You, Do You Consider Yourself Sane? --i Do. --well, There You Have It. --but Don't They Also Consider Themselves Sane? --i Think They Know. Deep Down. That They're Not Sane. --how Must That Make Them Feel? --terrible, I Should Think. They Must Fight Ever More Fiercely, In Order To Deny What They Know To Be True. That They Are Not Sane.

And I Sat There Getting Drunker And Drunker And More In Love And More In Love.

The Death Of God Left The Angels In A Strange Position.