Something I forgot to say, some other thought thought while sitting on my stoop in Greenwich Village, watching the smoke curl from my cigarette — some thought I had meant to set dwon. Ramble on, Sweet Rambler. Treat all temporal states equally — or somewhat equally — the Present is privileged as the Realm of Action, the Future privileged as the storehouse of industry — impulse meets impulse — but where does impulse come from —
My reason is simply an elaborate justifier, without normative force of its own — why do anything? why should I be good?
There is a great soul in there somewhere — echoing — though I am weak and weakling, I have a thick and heady thick and heady soul which only wants to do good — well, not only, maybe, what so only — no, I’m tempted by the edge — why — all the vagaries of human existence — not true, I try not to harm — and frankly, who have I harmed, really? None, none, none. A Saint I could be, A Saint I am, Mean to My Brother, hold him to the standard I don’t hold myself too —
Murder Red, and Murder Foul; those are not men, but beasts, and have no share in the Kingdom of Heaven.