Angels, We Have Grown Apart.

The Empty, The Angry, The Lonely, The Tricked, We Are All Museums Of Fear.

Those Who Escape Hell However Never Talk About It And Nothing Much Bothers Them After That

Style Means No Shield At All. Style Means No Front At All. Style Means Ultimate Naturalness. Style Means One Man Alone With Billions Of Men About.

You Are On The Freeway Threading Through Traffic Now, Moving Both Towards Something And Towards Nothing At All As You Punch The Radio On And Get Mozart, Which Is Something, And You Will Somehow Get Through The Slow Days And The Busy Days And The Dull Days And The Hateful Days And The Rare Days, All Both So Delightful And So Disappointing Because We Are All So Alike And So Different.

A Good Book Can Make An Almost Impossible Existence, Liveable ( From 'the Luck Of The Word' )