Against firelight, he sees the face of the woman / Lean over, and the lips purse sweet as to bestow a kiss, but / This is not true, and the great glob of spit / Hangs there, glittering, before she lets it fall.  The spit is what softens like silk the passage of steel / On the fine-grained stone. It whispers.

America has become a country full of big men in little cars.

Defending the truth is not something one does out of a sense of duty or to allay guilt complexes, but is a reward in itself.

Love can't be forced, it can only be given

Written By S.A.H

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