But Music Is, At The

You Deicde, And You Make Our Night What You Want. Brilliant And Ours. Stupid And Theirs.

He Fell In Love With Manhattan's Skyline, Like A First-time Brothel Guest Falling For A Seasoned Professional. He Mused Over Her Reflections In The Black East River At Dusk, Dawn, Or Darkest Night, And Each Haloed Light-in A Tower Or Strung Along The Jeweled And Sprawling Spider Legs Of The Brooklyn Bridge's Spans-hinted At Some Meaning, Which Could Be Understood Only When Made Audible By Music And Encoded In Lyrics.

But Music Is, At The Very Minimum, Inflammatory, Exclusionary, Divisive, Encouraging Of Snobbery And Solipsism.

There Are Few Things More Pleasing Than The Contemplation Of Order And Useful Arrangement.

The Strangest Thing. I Came To The End Of Other People So Quickly. Each New Person Was Like A Glass Of Water, And At The Beginning I Was Parched, But Then Each Glass Tasted A Little Worse, The Water Was Grittier, And By The End Even The First Sip Was Enough To Make Me Gag, You Know?