The memory came faint and cold of the story I might have told, a story in the likeness of my life, I mean without the courage to end or the strength to go on.

To contrive a little kingdom, in the midst of the universal muck, then shit on it, ah that was me all over.

Don't wait to be hunted to hide, that's always been my motto.

I knew it would soon be the end, so I played the part, you know, the part of-how shall I say, I don't know.

Sometimes I get the start of a story from a memory, an anecdote, but that gets lost and is usually unrecognizable in the final story.

Romance gathers round an old story like lichen on an old branch. And the story of Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard is so old now - some say a year old, some …

I don't know why I told this story. I could just as well have told another. Perhaps some other time I'll be able to tell another. Living souls, you will see ho…