Let Me Point Out, If

The Privileged Classes Can Afford Psychoanalysis And Whiskey. Whereas All We Get Is Sermons And Sour Wine. This Is Manifestly Unfair. I Protest, Silently.

"i Smell Fennel," Launcelot Said. "that Reminds Me, I Should Tell You I Have Discovered A Specific For Maims. You Take Salt, Good-quality River Mud, And Bee Urine, And Slather It On The Maim And Hold It There For Two Days. Works Like A Charm. Gathering The Bee Urine Is A Bit Of A Bore."

The Not-knowing Is Crucial To Art, Is What Permits Art To Be Made. Without The Scanning Process Engendered By Not-knowing, Without The Possibility Of Having The Mind Move In Unanticipated Directions, There Would Be No Invention.

Now It Is Necessary To Court Her, And Win Her, And Put On This Clean Dressing Gown, And Cut My Various Nails, And Drink Something That Will Kill The Millions Of Germs In My Mouth, And Say Something Flattering, And Be Witty And Bonny, And Hale And Kinky, All Just To Ease This Wrinkle In The Groin. It Seems A High Price.

Naked Girls With The Heads Of Marx And Malraux Prone And Helpless In The Glare Of The Headlights, Tried To Give Them A Little Joie De Vivre But Maybe It Didn't Take, Their Constant Bickering And Smallness, It's Like A Stroke Of Lightning, The World Reminds You Of Its Power, Tracheotomies Right And Left, I Am Spinning, My Pretty Child, Don't Scratch, Pick Up Your Feet, The Long Nights, Spent Most Of My Time Listening, This Is A Test Of The System, This Is Only A Test.