We are but skin about a wind, with muscles clenched against mortality.
For most people, life is nasty, brutish, and short; for me, it has simply been nasty and brutish.
Only the impossible lasts forever.
This head has risen above its hair in a moment of abandon known only to men who have drawn their feet out of their boots to walk awhile in the corridors of the mind.
Sleep demands of us a guilty immunity.
And must I, perchance, like careful writers, guard myself against the conclusions of my readers?