Writing about the unholy is one way of writing about what is sacred.
We each die countless little deaths on our way to the last. We die out of shame as humiliation. We perish from despair. And, of course, we die for love.
I never want to be the producer that I too often got.
After all, where can the glorious, the goofy, and the god-like stand shoulder to shoulder?
What worth was a man who could not be haunted?
To dream in isolation can be properly splendid to be sure; but to dream in company seems to me infinitely preferable.