The End Of Exile Is

Nothing Is A Matter Of Life And Death Except Life And Death.

Cats Of All Kinds Weave In And Out Of The Text; Burroughs Has Clearly Taken To Them In A Big Way In His Old Age And Seems Torn Between A Fear They Will Betray Him Into Sentimentality And A Resigned Acceptance That A Man Can't Be Ironic All The Time.

Our Fingernails Match Our Toenails, Match Our Lipstick Match Our Rouge...the Habit Of Applying Warpaint Outlasts The Battle.

Stars On Our Door, Stars In Our Eyes, Stars Exploding In The Bits Of Our Brains Where The Common Sense Should Have Been

Irish Was A Man Of Parts Even If Some Of Them Didn't Work Too Well.