The stuff of nightmare is their plain bread. They butter it with pain. They set their clocks by deathwatch beetles, and thrive the centuries. They were the men with the leather-ribbon whips who sweated up the Pyramids seasoning it with other people's salt and other people's cracked hearts. They coursed Europe on the White Horses of the Plague. They whispered to Caesar that he was mortal, then sold daggers at half-price in the grand March sale. Some must have been lazing clowns, foot props for emperors, princes, and epileptic popes. Then out on the road, Gypsies in time, their populations grew as the world grew, spread, and there was more delicious variety of pain to thrive on. The train put wheels under them and here they run down the log road out of the Gothic and baroque; look at their wagons and coaches, the carving like medieval shrines, all of it stuff once drawn by horses, mules, or, maybe, men.

The more material we lose, the less we have. The less we have, the more we win.

He looked around. The room, a few suitcases, some belongings, a handful of well-read books_ a man needed few things to live. And it was good not to get used to many things when life was unsettled. Again and again one had to abandon them or they were taken away. One should be ready to leave every day. That was the reason he had lived alone_ when one was on the move one should not have anything that could bind one. Nothing that could stir the heart. The adventure_ but nothing more.

Weather forecast for tonight: dark.

Ladies glisten, men perspire, horses sweat.-Early Nun Quote, The Old Ursuline Convent (1727) New Orleans, LA

Y'ever notice how you never seem to get laid on Thanksgiving? I think it's because all the coats are on the bed.