Death Has This Much To

Consciousness Was Upon Him Before He Could Get Out Of The Way.

It Scored Right Away With Me By Being The Smooth, Fine-grained Sort, Not The Coarse Flaky, Dry-on-the-outside Rubbish Full Of Chunds Of Gut And Gristle To Testify To Its Authenticity.

I Wish I Could Have A Little Tape-and-loudspeaker Arrangement Sewn Into The Binding Of This Magazine, To Be Triggered Off By The Light Reflected From The Reader's Eyes On To This Part Of The Page, And Set To Bawl Out At Several Bels: More Will Mean Worse.

Feeling A Tremendous Rakehell, And Not Liking Myself Much For It, And Feeling Rather A Good Chap For Not Liking Myself Much For It, And Not Liking Myself At All For Feeling Rather A Good Chap.

Sex Stops When You Pull Up Your Pants, Love Never Lets You Go.