For without knowing the white man at close hand$$$ without having submitted to his wanton and arrogant kindnesses$$$ without having smelled the smell of his bedsheets and his dirty underdrawers and the inside of his privy$$$ and felt the casual yet insolent touch of his womens fingers upon his own black arm$$$ without seeing him at sport and at ease and at his hypocrites worship and at his drunken vileness and at his lustful and adulterous couplings in the hayfield$$$ without having known all these cozy and familial truths$$$ I say$$$ a Negro can only pretend hatred.
I hate this type of unearned unhappiness.
I have learned to cry again and I think perhaps that means I am a human being again. Perhaps that at least. A piece of human being but yes$$$ a human being.
This was not judgment day - only morning. Morning: excellent and fair.
A phenomenon that a number of people have noted while in deep depression is the sense of being accompanied by a second self$$$ a wraithlike observer who$$$ not sharing the dementia of his double$$$ is able to watch with dispassionate curiosity as his companion struggles against the oncoming disaster$$$ or decides to embrace it.
The past$$$ the present$$$ and the future are really one: they are today.
Death followed by eternity the worst of both worlds. It is a terrible thought.
Despair has its own calms.
We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us$$$ with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke$$$ and a presumption that once our eyes watered.
There wouldn't be so many stories about vampires and zombies and other weird creatures if they didn't really exist.