Autumn is leaving its mellowness behind for its spiky, rotted stage. Don't remember summer even saying goodbye.

Always, it is the poor people who pay. And always, it is the poor people's women who pay the most.

Torturous advances won over generations can be lost by a single stroke of a myopic president's pen or a vainglorious general's sword.

Women, O, women! They'll find the baddest meanin' in your words & hold it up.

I understand now that boundaries between noise and sound are conventions. All boundaries are conventions, waiting to be transcended. One may transcend any convention if only one can first conceive of doing so.

Who was blowing on the nape of my neck?

The mind abhors a vacancy & is wont to people it with phantoms.