I See The Player Piano As The

Tragedy Was Foresworn, In Ritual Denial Of The Ripe Knowledge That We Are Drawing Away From One Another, That We Share Only One Thing, Share The Fear Of Belonging To Another, Or To Others, Or To God; Love Or Money, Tender Equated In Advertising And The World, Where Only Money Is Currency, And Under Dead Trees And Brittle Ornaments Prehensile Hands Exchange Forgeries Of What The Heart Dare Not Surrender.

Power Doesn't Corrupt People; People Corrupt Power.

Everybody Has That Feeling When They Look At A Work Of Art And It's Right, That Sudden Familiarity, A Sort Of...recognition, As Though They Were Creating It Themselves, As Though It Were Being Created Through Them While They Look At It Or Listen To It.

He Walked Out Into The Cold Morning Asking Himself This Heretical Question: Can You Start Measuring A Minute At Any Instant You Wish?

Why Do You Treat Me As They Do, As Though I Were Exactly What I Want To Be. Why Do We Treat People That Way?