Unhappiness Is The Ultimate Form Of Self-indulgence.

She Continued Weeping Until The Heat Of Her Tear Water, The Sheer Velocity Of Its Flow, Finally Obscured The Already Vague Circumstances Of Its Origins.

When We Accept Bad Art Because It's Good Politics, We're Killing The Swan To Feed The Chickens.

Usually, Autobiography Is Such An Indulgence Of The Ego.

On Their Sofas Of Spice And Feathers, The Concubines Also Slept Fretfully. In Those Days The Earth Was Still Flat, And People Dreamed Often Of Falling Over Edges.

The Truth, From My Perspective, Is That The World, Indeed, Is Ending - And Is Also Being Reborn. It's Been Doing That All Day, Every Day, Forever.