It's True: Every Time You Kill An

Life Is Too Short For Grief. Or Regret. Or Bullshit.

The World Is What It Is, No Less And No More, And Therein Lies Its Entire And Sufficient Meaning.

Of Course I Litter The Public Highway. Every Chance I Get. After All, It's Not The Beer Cans That Are Ugly; It's The Highway That Is Ugly.

The Proustian Aquarium: Grotesque And Gorgeous Fish Drifting With Languid Fins Through A Subaqueous Medium Of Pale Violet Polluted Ink.

The Night I Filled An Inside Straight: Even A Blind Hog's Gonna Root Up An Acorn Once In A While.