Is that blogging? Stop That.

Do I mind — do I mind the guaranteed dazzle of my days, the way I surge from one proud eminence to another, the way my life has always pounded through the unequal landscape about us on arrow-straight, slick silvery rails? I hold my eye in the glass — funny feeling: it's always nice; we have a good time together (it's like catching nature rhyming.) I suppose it's a gift, like any other, and the inordinately gifted have always had a certain dread of their own genius. There's a pang in it somewhere... lonely are the beautiful, like the brilliant, like the brave.