I Think There Is A Sense Of

I've Got Death Inside Me. It's Just A Question Of Whether Or Not I Can Outlive It.

People Hurried Past, The Others Of The Street, Endless Anonymous, Twenty-one Lives Per Second, Race-walking In Their Faces And Pigments, Sprays Of Fleetest Being.

One Of My Earliest Memories As A Reader - I Don't Know How Old I Was, Quite Young - Was A Poem Of His, Called "fog," And I Remember The First Verse, "the Fog Comes / On Little Cat Feet".

The Genius Of Rock Music Is That It Matched The Cultural Hysteria Around It.

If You Know You're Worth Nothing, Only A Gamble With Death Can Gratify Your Vanity.