..she Had That Brand Of Pragmatism That

Spring, If It Lingers More Than A Week Beyond Its Span, Starts To Hunger For Summer To End The Days Of Perpetual Promise. Summer In Its Turn Soon Begins To Sweat For Something To Quench Its Heat, And The Mellowest Of Autumns Will Tire Of Gentility At Last, And Ache For A Quick Sharp Frost To Kill Its Fruitfulness. Even Winter — The Hardest Season, The Most Implacable — Dreams, As February Creeps On, Of The Flame That Will Presently Melt It Away. Everything Tires With Time, And Starts To Seek Some Opposition, To Save It From Itself.

You Have To Taste The Sour Urine Before You Break The Jug.

All I Ever Wanted To Do Is Darken The Day And Brighten The Night

The Paintings Of Francis Bacon To My Eye Are Very Beautiful. The Paintings Of Bosch Or Goya Are To My Eye Very Beautiful. I've Also Stood In Front Of Those Same Paintings With People Who've Said, 'let's Get On To The Botticellis As Soon As Possible.' I Have Lingered, Of Course.

Sung To The Tune Of O Christmas Tree O Woe Is Me, O Woe Is Me, I Used To Have A Hamster Tree, But It Was Eaten By A Newt, And Now I Have No Cuddly Fruit, O Woe Is Me, O Woe Is Me, I Used To Have A Hamster Tree!