Crooked Cards And Straight Whiskey, Slow Horses

Lost In Loneliness And Pain. Black And Unendurable, Thinking Of You With Every Corpuscle Of My Flesh, In Every Instant Of Night And Day.

Love Is The Garment Of Knowledge.

There Have Always Been Those Who, Though They See Tragedy As The Outcome Of Freedom, Will Nevertheless Judge That Tragedy Is Not Too High A Price To Pay.

The Moral Issues With Which Marcus Struggles Would Be, As He Points Out, Unchanged Whether The Universe Were Mechanical And Devoid Of Meaning Or Value Or Ruled By Deity Or Providence; Whether The Will Were In Fact Free Or Determined; Whether There Were Or Were Not A Future Life, Or Any Even Fugitive Rewards And Punishments At All.

The Dumping Of The Mentally Ill, Full Of These New Psychiatric Drugs, Into The Streets Is A Scandal. It's Been Carried Furthest In New York, Where Whole Sections Of The Decayed Upper West Side Are Being Filled With Pensioners And Psychotic Patients On Stelazine, Lithium Carbonate, And Everything Else Under The Sun. They Can't Diagnose The Patient, So They Give Him The Whole Psychiatric Pharmacopoeia At Once, And He Walks Around In A Psychotic Trance Beautifully Painted All Over With Petrochemicals.