The sun like a sneaky keyhole view of hell.

You get to decide what to worship.

This is what the real, no bullshit value of your liberal arts education is supposed to be about: how to keep from going through your comfortable, prosperous, respectable adult life dead, unconscious, a slave to your head and to your natural default setting of being uniquely, completely, imperially alone day in and day out.

The sun like a sneaky keyhole view of hell.

I don’t really mean what I’m saying.

It seems like the big difference between good art and so-so art lies somewhere in the art's heart's purpose, the agenda of the consciousness behind the text. It's got something to do with love, with having the discipline to talk out of the part of yourself that can love instead of the part that just wants to be loved.

It looks like you can write a minimalist piece without much bleeding. And you can. But not a good one.