What deity in the realms of dementia, what rabid god decocted out of the smoking lobes of hydrophobia could have devised a keeping place for souls so poor as is this flesh. This mawky worm-bent tabernacle.

“Easy to see that naught save sorrow could bring a man to such a view of things.…”

“The point is there ain't no point.”

“The things that I loved were very frail. Very fragile. I didn't know that. I th…”

“The sacred idiom shorn of its referents and so of its reality.”