The Only Time I Ever

I Think It's One Of The Scars In Our Culture That We Have Too High An Opinion Of Ourselves. We Align Ourselves With The Angels Instead Of The Higher Primates.

Midnight, And The Clock Strikes. It Is Christmas Day, The Werewolves Birthday, The Door Of The Solstice Still Wide Enough Open To Let Them All Slink Through.

I Haven't Changed Much, Over The Years. I Use Less Adjectives, Now, And Have A Kinder Heart, Perhaps.

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.

It Is, Perhaps, A Better Thing To Be Valued Only As An Object Of Passion Than Never To Be Valued At All.