We are not damned. We never were. Who under the sun has the right to damn any living breathing creature?

You look good to me, you damnable little devil, good to embrace and good to love.

As for oblivion, well, we can wait a little while for that.

There may be writing groups where people meet but it's occasional. You really do it all at your own computer or your own typewriter by yourself.

Should we put out the light? And then put out the light. But once put out thy light, I cannot give it vital breath again. It needs must wither.

What does all this mean finally, I kept asking like a college kid. Why does it make me want to cry? Maybe it’s that we are all outsiders, we are all making our own unusual way through a wilderness of normality that is just a myth.

I congratulate myself on not having arrived into the world until the present time. This age suits my taste.