...what Was The Good Of Being A

Don't Bend; Don't Water It Down; Don't Try To Make It Logical; Don't Edit Your Own Soul According To The Fashion. Rather, Follow Your Most Intense Obsessions Mercilessly. Only If You Do That Can You Hope To Make The Reader Feel Every Particle Of What You, The Writer, Have Known And Feel Compelled To Share."---forward To Kafka's Short Stories

It Was As If The Empty Nights Were Made For Thinking Of Him. And Sometimes I Found Myself So Vividly Aware Of Him It Was As If He Had Only Just Left The Room And The Ring Of His Voice Were Still There. And Somehow, There Was A Disturbing Comfort In That, And, Despite Myself, I’d Envision His Face.

I Believe In The Biblical Documents Supporting Jesus. But I Have No Illusions About Them. I Think They Contain Many Flaws, Scribal Errors, And So Forth And They Are Only Partial Or Fragmentary.

I'm Hoping What All Sentient Beings Hope ... That Somehow I'm Part Of Something Larger Than Myself, In Which I Play A Role, An Actual Role That Is Somehow Intended And Meaningful.

There Is A Horrifying Loneliness At Work In This Time. No, Listen To Me. We Lived Six And Seven To A Room In Those Days, When I Was Still Among The Living. The City Streets Were Seas Of Humanity; And Now In These High Buildings Dim-witted Souls Hover In Luxurious Privacy, Gazing Through The Television Window At A Faraway World Of Kissing And Touching. It Is Bound To Produce Some Great Fund Of Common Knowledge, Some New Level Of Human Awareness, A Curious Skepticism, To Be So Alone.