Find A Pile Of Gold And Sit

I Couldn't Go On, Too Conscious All At Once Of My Whispering, My Eternal Posturing, Always Transforming The World With Words--changing Nothing.

I Understand That The World Was Nothing: A Mechanical Chaos Of Casual, Brute Enmity On Which We Stupidly Impose Our Hopes And Fears. I Understood That, Finally And Absolutely, I Alone Exist. All The Rest, I Saw, Is Merely What Pushes Me, Or What I Push Against, Blindly - As Blindly As All That Is Not Myself Pushes Back. I Create The Whole Universe, Blink By Blink.

They Watch On, Evil, Incredibly Stupid, Enjoying My Destruction. 'poor Grendel's Had An Accident,' I Whisper. 'so May You All.

It Would Be, For Me, Mere Pointless Pleasure, An Illusion Of Order For This One Frail, Foolish, Flicker-flash In The Long Dull Fall Of Eternity.

Art, Of Course, Is A Way Of Thinking, A Way Of Mining Reality.