Call me Bill

Another guy who obviously, if not indubitably, recognizes the power, if not the terror, of words, tells me that he’s changing his name to "Bill," “just to throw ‘em off the trail.”



At some other time at this one place, there was a kind of cultish little collection of people whose leader one day accidentally cut off a finger, and the next occasion when they all met, and the followers expressed their concern over his missing digit, he covered himself by immediately declaring that his injury was a predictable result of a certain “mystical ritual,” to which they were not privy.  And several days later when they next met many of the faithful were missing a finger, whilst those others who still had some potential were simply missing.



Stiffening joints have made more men metaphysical poets than any dose of spiritual compassion.



I once became acquainted with a man who for many years toiled over his “grand epic poem,” which centered around the theme, “Those things I once did see, I gradually see no more.”  (And you might care to know this was in regards not to his growing blind, but to his growing up.)



To more completely fulfill the unknown definition of a “Real Revolutionist,” or a “Neural Subversive,” a person should have almost no ordinary “psychological inner life.”