How Much Of Life Could He Spend

He Fell In Love With Manhattan's Skyline, Like A First-time Brothel Guest Falling For A Seasoned Professional. He Mused Over Her Reflections In The Black East River At Dusk, Dawn, Or Darkest Night, And Each Haloed Light-in A Tower Or Strung Along The Jeweled And Sprawling Spider Legs Of The Brooklyn Bridge's Spans-hinted At Some Meaning, Which Could Be Understood Only When Made Audible By Music And Encoded In Lyrics.

It Was So Much Easier To Be Alone, If One Could Find Just The Right Location.

There Are Few Things More Pleasing Than The Contemplation Of Order And Useful Arrangement.

You Deicde, And You Make Our Night What You Want. Brilliant And Ours. Stupid And Theirs.

But Music Is, At The Very Minimum, Inflammatory, Exclusionary, Divisive, Encouraging Of Snobbery And Solipsism.