Never mistake talking about writing for actual writing.

Everything is perfect on the street again, the world is permeated with roses of happiness all the time, but none of us know it. The happiness consists in realizing that it is all a great strange dream.

A fine thing to be talking about angels in this day when common thieves smash the holy rosaries of their victims in the street.

But they need to worry and betray time with urgencies false and otherwise, purely anxious and whiny, their souls really won't be at peace unless they can latch to an established and proven worry and having once found it they assume facial expressions to fit and go with it, which is, you see, unhappiness, and all the time it all flies by them and they know it and that too worries them no end.

Something good will come out of all things yet — And it will be golden and eternal just like that.

You guys are going somewhere or just going?

It was a rainy night. It was the myth of the rainy night.