No One Is Drawn To

A Curtain Of Stars, Miles Of Them, Are Scattered, Glowing, Across The Sky And Their Multitude Humbles Me, Which I Have A Hard Time Tolerating. She Shrugs And Nods After I Say Something About Forms Of Anxiety. It's As If Her Mind Is Having A Hard Time Communicating With Her Mouth, As If She Is Searching For A Rational Analysis Of Who I Am, Which Is, Of Course, An Impossibility: There... Is... No... Key.

I Wasn't Acting On Passion. I Was Simply Acting.

History Is Sinking And Only A Very Few Seem Dimly Aware That Things Are Getting Bad.

I Think The '80s Created Me, In A Way, When I Look Back On That Time, But I Don't Necessarily Think That A Lot Of My Choices, And A Lot Of Things That I Did, And A Lot Of Things That Happened To Me - Or I Let Happen To Me - Were About That Decade.

I Have To Return Some Videotapes