Mine Is Not An Autonomous Imagination.

You Have Friends Who Actually Care About You And Speak The Language Of The Inner Self. You Have Avoided Them Of Late. Your Soul Is As Disheveled As Your Apartment, And Until You Can Clean It Up A Little You Don't Want To Invite Anyone Inside.

I Was Fortunate To Get A Lot Of Mileage Out Of My Vices . . . The Point Is Not To Be Debilitated By Your Pleasures. Maybe I Have Lucky Genes Or Something But I've Never Been Truly Addicted To Anything, Except Pleasure In General.

I'm Afraid That - Not Necessarily Deliberately, But Consistently - I've Made A Kind Of Laboratory Out Of My Life, Where I Mix The Stuff In The Test Tubes To Create Explosions - Possibly Resulting In Interesting By-products. I Mean, Not Deliberately - I'd Be Crazy To Deliberately Do That - Or Maybe Not.

A Modest Critique Of An Age In Which An Actor Is The President, In Which Fashion Models Are Asked For Their Opinions, In Which Getting Into A Nightclub Is Seen As A Significant Human Achievement.

Bottles Of Wine Aren't Like Paintings. At Some Point You Have To Consume Them. The Object In Life Is To Die With No Bottles Of Wine In Your Cellar. To Drink Your Last Bottle Of Wine And Go To Sleep That Night And Not Wake Up.