It Was The Only Way To Progress,

Hold The Old Holding Hand. Hold And Be Held. Plod On And Never Recede. Slowly With Never A Pause Plod On And Never Recede.

There Are Two Moments Worthwhile In Writing, The One When You Start And The Other When You Throw It In The Waste-paper Basket.

All I Want To Do Is Sit On My Ass And Fart And Think Of Dante.

I Pause To Record That I Feel In Extraordinary Form. Delirium Perhaps.

We Lose Our Hair, Our Teeth! Our Bloom, Our Ideals.