O remember In your narrowing dark hours That more things move Than blood in the heart.
Poetry is often generations in advance of the thought of its time.
The fact, and the intuition or logic about the fact, are severe coordinates in fiction. In the short story they must cross with hair-line precision.
The measured blood beats out the year's delay.
Perhaps this very instant is your time.
Stupidity always accompanies evil. Or evil, stupidity.