Sometimes I play the quiet game… sometimes I play dead… sometimes I lay on my back in a September field and listen to the earth hurtling through space… to victims shrieking at all the evil-deeds wrought upon them… then I try to sink into the light, soft, fluid grass and become a part of its mystery…

When I can bear it, I try to look ahead… but all horizons are equally galling… sometimes I think I’m going crazy… sometimes I’m my own imaginary friend…