Get Stewed:books Are A Load Of Crap.

I Listen To Money Singing, It's Like Looking Down From Long French Windows At A Provincial Town. The Slums, The Canal, The Churches Ornate And Mad In The Evening Sun. It Is Intensely Sad.

Everyone Should Be Forcibly Transplanted To Another Continent From Their Family At The Age Of Three.

All The Unhurried Day / Your Mind Lay Open Like A Drawer Of Knives.

It Becomes Still More Difficult To Find
words At Once True And Kind,
or Not Untrue And Not Unkind.

Here Is An Unfenced Existance