Nothing Else Loves Me, Or Ever Will.

First Things First Has Always Been My Motto, Mostly Because It Makes Absolutely No Sense - After All, If First Things Were Second Or Third, They Wouldn't Be First Things, Would They? Still, Cliches Exist To Comfort The Feeble Minded, Not To Provide Any Actual Meaning.

Or Was He Saying, "hi! Wanna Play?" And I Did. Of Course I Did.

A Reasonable Being Might Think That He And I Could Find Some Common Ground; Have A Cup Of Coffee And Compare Our Passengers, Exchange Trade Talk And Chitchat About Dismemberment Techniques. But No: Doakes Wanted Me Dead. And I Found It Difficult To Share His Point Of View.

Happily For Me, Ninety-nine Percent Of All Human Life Is Spent Simply Repeating The Same Old Actions, Speaking The Same Tired Clichés, Moving Like A Zombie Through The Same Steps Of The Dance We Plodded Through Yesterday And The Day Before And The Day Before. It Seems Horribly Dull And Pointless-but It Really Makes A Great Deal Of Sense. After All, If You Only Have To Follow The Same Path Every Day, You Don't Need To Think At All. Considering How Good Humans Are At Any Mental Process More Complicated Than Chewing, Isn't That The Best For Everybody?

It's That Moon Again, Slung So Fat And Low In The Tropical Night, Calling Out Across A Curdled Sky And Into The Quivering Ears Of That Dear Old Voice In The Shadows, The Dark Passenger, Nestled Snug In The Backseat Of The Dodge K-car Of Dexter's Hypothetical Soul. That Rascal Moon, That Loudmouthed Leering Lucifer, Calling Down Across The Empty Sky To The Dark Hearts Of The Night Monsters Below, Calling Them Away To Their Joyful Playgrounds.