I Am A Collection Of Dismantled Almosts.

Think Of Innocent Icarus Who Is Doing Quite Well: Larger Than A Sail, Over The Fog And The Blast Of The Plushy Ocean, He Goes. Admire His Wings!

The Soul Was Not Cured, It Was As Full As A Clothes Closet Of Dresses That Did Not Fit.

But Even In A Telephone Booth Evil Can Seep Out Of The Receiver And We Must Cover It With A Mattress, And Then Tear It From Its Roots And Bury It, Bury It.

The Place I Live In Is A Kind Of Maze And I Keep Seeking The Exit Or The Home.

Of Course The New Testament Is Very Small. Its Mouth Opens Four Times As Out-of-date As A Prehistoric Monster, Yet Somehow Man-made.