In Myths Things Always Turn

Sometimes You Want To Say Things, And You're Missing An Idea To Make Them With, And Missing A Word To Make The Idea With. In The Beginning Was The Word. That's How Somebody Tried To Explain It Once. Until Something Is Named, It Doesn't Exist.

But I Realized Something. About Art. And Psychiatry. They're Both Self-perpetuating Systems. Like Religion. All Three Of Them Promise You A Sense Of Inner Worth And Meaning, And Spend A Lot Of Time Telling You About The Suffering You Have To Go Through To Achieve It.

Human Beings Being What They Are, Order Spreads, Given Half A Chance, Almost As Fast As Confusion.

There Is A Hollow, Holey Cylinder Running From Hilt To Point In My Machete. When I Blow Across The Mouthpiece In The Handle, I Make Music With My Blade. When All The Holes Are Covered, The Sound Is Sad, As Rough As Rough Can Be And Be Called Smooth. When All The Holes Are Open, The Sound Pipes About, Bringing To The Eye Flakes Of Sun On Water, Crushed Metal. There Are Twenty Holes. And Since I've Been Playing Music, I've Been Called All Different Kinds Of Fool - More Times Than Lobey, Which Is My Name.

The Pleasures Of Love Are Really Quite Wonderful--though I Suspect They Are Rather A Luxury And Require A Certain Level Of Socioeconomic Stability To Be Anything Other Than A Mode Of Suffering.