In The Kitchens Of Love, After All,

Well, You Know... Experience Is A Muffled Lantern That Throws Light Only On The Bearer...it's Incommunicable.

To Hell With Reality! I Want To Die In Music, Not In Reason Or In Prose.

Love Is Like Liquor, The Drunker And More Impotent You Are, The Stronger And Smarter You Think Yourself And The Surer You Are Of Your Rights.

Man Hardly Comes In More Than Two Varieties, Wherever He Is, Whatever He Does: Workers And Pimps ... They're Either One Or The Other! ... And Inventors, The Worst Kind Of Jobholder! ... They Stand Condemned! ... The Writer Who Doesn't Pimp Along, Peacefully Plagiarizing, Who Doesn't Pump Out The Pop Stuff, He's Had It! ... Everybody Hates Him!

There's A Point Of Poverty At Which The Spirit Isn't With The Body All The Time. It Finds The Body Really Too Unbearable. So It's Almost As If You Were Talking To The Soul Itself. And A Soul's Not Properly Responsible.