Length Is Usually Intensity. Not

It All Comes Down, As It Must, To The Desires Of Individual Men. Oh, And Women Too Of Course, Bless Their Empty Little Heads.

Why Should Things Be Easy To Understand?

Oh, This Beer Here Is Cold, Cold And Hop-bitter, No Point Coming Up For Air, Gulp, Till It's All--hahhhh.

You Go From Dream To Dream Inside Me. You Have Passage To My Last Shabby Corner, And There, Among The Debris, You’ve Found Life. I’m No Longer Sure Which Of All The Words, Images, Dreams Or Ghosts Are ‘yours’ And Which Are ‘mine.’ It’s Past Sorting Out.

"you Are So Close." "to Whom? Margravine, Not Even To Himself. This Place, This Island: All His Life He's Done Nothing But Hop From Island To Island. Is That A Reason? Does There Have To Be A Reason? Shall He Tell You: He Works For No Whitehall, Non Conceivable Unless, Ha, Ha, The Network Of White Halls In His Own Brain: These Featureless Corridors He Keeps Swept And Correct For Occasional Visiting Agents."