The Page Is Long, Blank,

Our Radio Plays Rhythm And Blues As We Pass The Joint Back And Forth In Jutjawed Silence Both Looking Ahead With Big Private Thoughts Now So Vast We Can't Communicate Them Anymore And If We Tried It Would Take A Million Years And A Billion Books - Too Late, Too Late, The History Of Everything We've Seen Together And Separately Has Become A Library In Itself - The Shelves Pile Higher - They're Full Of Misty Documents Or Documents Of The Mist-.

It Always Makes Me Proud To Love The World Somehow- Hate's So Easy Compared.

What's In Store For Me In The Direction I Don't Take?

Goddamn It, Feeling Is What I Like In Art, Not Craftiness And The Hiding Of Feelings.

A Fine Thing To Be Talking About Angels In This Day When Common Thieves Smash The Holy Rosaries Of Their Victims In The Street.