Thinking makes poverty.
Religion as we came to regard it in London was a glib and soiled art.
Eclipses of our mental sun and moon betray us; so I beseech you, brain, do not regress as time shows time’s ending: old and reverend, think straight.
Eater of broken meats I seem to be: knave, rascal, ruffian. Reverence to self...
Perhaps this cold world will turn us all to fools and madmen...
Stratford
Why is it I grimace so much? Alone I mug, pull my beard, rub flat of hand over my eyes, crack knuckles, shrug, sigh. Is this my sane monologue with self? What’s its purpose? Perhaps I must convince myself that I am alive and battling: grimace at the window, grimace on the pot, grimace at bed. Grimace is my hornbook. For the best of self-conviction I prefer knuckle cracking—such skeletal speech.