There Is Zero, And There Is Eternity,

They're Animals, All Right. But Why Are You So Goddam Sure That Makes Us Human Beings?

I Realized The Shells Were Talking In A Voice I Recognized. I Should Have; It Was My Own. Had I Always Known That? I Suppose I Had. On Some Level, Unless We're Mad, I Think Most Of Us Know The Various Voices Of Our Own Imaginations. And Of Our Memories, Of Course. They Have Voices, Too. Ask Anyone Who Has Ever Lost A Limb Or A Child Or A Long-cherished Dream. Ask Anyone Who Blames Himself For A Bad Decision, Usually Made In A Raw Instant (an Instant That Is Most Commonly Red). Our Memories Have Voices, Too. Often Sad Ones That Clamor Like Raised Arms In The Dark.

The Look Of The Sky As The Day's Blue Blood Runs Out Of Its Cheek.

The Sandwich He Made Was Bologna And Cheese, His Favorite. All The Sandwiches He Made Were His Favorites; That Was One Of The Advantages Of Being Single.

A Dimwit Thinks Nothing Is Funny Unless It's Mean.