Do Not Be Tempted By English Roses.

Can We Really Conquer Chaos So Easily? If That Were So, I Should Be Able To Prune The Pandemonium Of My Own Soul Into Something Neat And Tidy Rather Than This Maze Of Wants And Needs And Misgivings That Has Me Forever Feeling As If I Cannot Fit Into The Landscape Of Things.

But The Past Cannot Be Changed, And We Carry Our Choices With Us, Forward, Into The Unknown. We Can Only Move On.

The Mere Suggestion Of Fame And Fortune Casts A Glamour All Its Own. It Is Rather Alarming How Quickly People Will Turn Someone Else's Fiction Into Fact In Order To Support Their Own Fictions Of Themselves.

Gonzo Narrows His Eyes. 'how Often Do You Clean That Thing?' 'every Night,' The Waitress Answers. Her Smile Is Strained. 'that's It? Do You Know How Long It Takes For Listeria To Grow Under Those Hot Lamps, Even With Ice?' Here We Go. 'it Can Happen In Just Five Hours. Five Hours And You've Got The Salad Bar Of Death!' The Waitress Looks Confused. 'from Listerine?

And Just As I Begin To Believe That All Is Well, There Is Some Subtle Change In The Light. The Room Takes Its True Shape. I Fight To Go Back To That Blissful Ignorance, But It Is Too Late. The Dull Pain Of Truth Weights My Soul, Pulling It Under. I Am Left Hopelessly Awake.