The Progress Of Any Writer Is Marked

He Could Not Stand. It Was Not That He Could Not Thrive, He Was Born With Everything But The Will – That Can Be Deformed, Just Like A Limb. Death Was More Interesting To Him. Life Could Not Get His Attention.

He Was His Own Leftover, The Spat-out Scrag. He Was What His Brain Could Make Nothing Of.

The Gash In Its Throat Was Shocking, But Not Pathetic.

The Progress Of Any Writer Is Marked By Those Moments When He Manages To Outwit His Own Inner Police System.

Haven’t You Heard Of The Music Of The Spheres?” Asked The Dragon. “it’s The Music That Space Makes To Itself. All The Spirits Inside All The Stars Are Singing. I’m A Star Spirit. I Sing Too. The Music Of The Spheres Is What Makes Space So Peaceful.