Time Is The Speed At Which The

I Elbowed My Way Into The Grubby Café, Bought A Pie That Tasted Of Shoe Polish And A Pot Of Tea With Cork Crumbs Floating In It, And Eavesdropped On A Pair Of Shetland Pony Breeders. Despondency Makes One Hanker After Lives One Never Led. Why Have You Given Your Life To Books, Tc? Dull, Dull, Dull! The Memoirs Are Bad Enough, But All That Ruddy Fiction! Hero Goes On A Journey, Stranger Comes To Town, Somebody Wants Something, They Get It Or They Don't, Will Is Pitted Against Will. "admire Me, For I Am A Metaphor.

- This Isn't An Interrogation Or A Trail. Your Version Of The Truth Is The Only Thing That Matters. -truth Is Singular. It's 'versions' Are Mistruths.

Eva. Every Day I've Climbed Up The Belfry Chanting A Lucky Chant At One Syllable Per Beat, "to-day-to-day-let-her-be-here-to-day-to-day.

As Many Truths As Men. Occasionally, I Glimpse A Truer Truth, Hiding In Imperfect Simulacrums Of Itself, But As I Approach, It Bestirs Itself & Moves Deeper Into The Thorny Swamp Of Dissent.

I Pass Through Many Me's In The Course Of My Day, Each One Selfish With His Time. The Lying-in-bed Me And The Enjoying-the-hot-shower Me Are Particularly Selfish. The Late Me Loathes The Pair Of Them.