What, I Should Only Trust Good People?

It Takes, Unhappily, No More Than A Desk And Writing Supplies To Turn Any Room Into A Confessional.

You Know What A Miracle Is. Not What Bakunin Said. But Another World’s Intrusion Into This One. Most Of The Time We Coexist Peacefully, But When We Do Touch There’s Cataclysm.

She Touched The Edge Of Its Voluptuous Field, Knowing It Would Be Lovely Beyond Dreams Simply To Submit To It; That Not Gravity's Pull, Laws Of Ballistics, Feral Ravening, Promised More Delight. She Tested It, Shivering: I Am Meant To Remember. Each Clue That Comes Is Supposed To Have Its Own Clarity, Its Fine Chances For Permanence. But Then She Wondered If The Gemlike "clues" Were Only Some Kind Of Compensation. To Make Up For Her Having Lost The Direct, Epileptic Word, The Cry That Might Abolish The Night.

Life's Single Lesson: That There Is More Accident To It Than A Man Can Ever Admit To In A Lifetime And Stay Sane.

Some Of Us Are Afraid Of Dying; Others Of Human Loneliness. Profane Was Afraid Of Land Or Seascapes Like This, Where Nothing Else Lived But Himself.