Sublime Is Something You Choke On After

The Thread Has Snapped. No Sound Even To Mark The Breaking Let Alone The Fall. That Long Anticipated Disintegration, When The Darkest Angel Of All, The Horror Beyond All Horrors, Sits At Last Upon My Chest, Permanently Enfolding Me In Its Great Covering Wings, Black As Ink, Veined In Bees' Purple. A Creature Without A Voice. A Voice Without A Name. As Immortal As My Life. Come Here At Long Last To Summon The Wind.

Maturity, One Discovers, Has Everything To Do With The Acceptance Of ‘not Knowing.

And Where There Is No Echo There Is No Description Of Space Or Love. There Is Only Silence.

Not All Complex Problems Have Easy Solutions; So Says Science (so Warns Science.)

I'm Not Independently Wealthy.