When the lies are all told and forgot the truth will be their yet.

I guess you ought to be careful about cussin the dead. I would say at the least there probably ain't no luck in it.

I tried to put things in perspective but sometimes you're just too close to it.

Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.

The truth may often be carried about by those who themselves remain all unaware of it. They bear that which has weight and substance and yet for them has no name whereby it may be evoked or called forth. They go about ignorant of the true nature of their condition, such are the wiles of truth and such its stratagems.

This country will kill you in a heartbeat and still people love it.

Whatever in creation exists without my knowledge exists without my consent.