Politics Is The Enemy Of The Imagination.

There's A Taste In The Air, Sweet And Vaguely Antiseptic, That Reminds Him Of His Teenage Years In These Streets, And Of A General State Of Longing, A Hunger For Life To Begin That From This Distance Seems Like Happiness.

You Enter A State Of Controlled Passivity, You Relax Your Grip And Accept That Even If Your Declared Intention Is To Justify The Ways Of God To Man, You Might End Up Interesting Your Readers Rather More In Satan.

Is There Any Meaning In My Life That The Inevitable Death Awaiting Me Does Not Destory?

He Would Work Through The Night And Sleep Until Lunch. There Wasn't Really Much Else To Do. Make Something, And Die.

The Cost Of Oblivius Daydreaming Was Always This Moment Of Return, The Realigment With What Had Been Before And Now Seemed A Little Worse. Her Reverie, Once Rich In Plausible Details, Had Become A Passing Silliness Before The Hard Mass Of The Actual. It Was Difficult To Come Back.