Some Mornings... I Sit At The Kitchen

Everybody Sounds Stoned, Because They're E-mailing People The Whole Time They're Talking To You.

Reading Is The Nourishment That Lets You Do Interesting Work.

Sometimes I Imagine Myself Looking Back On Right Now And I Think Like Where Will I Be Standing When I Look Back Will Right Now Look Like The Beginning Of A Great Life Or... Or What

Some Mornings... I Sit At The Kitchen Table Shaking Salt Into The Hairs On My Arm, And A Feeling Shoves Up In Me: It's Finished. Everything Went Past Without Me.

Nineteen Eighty Is Almost Here, Thank God. The Hippies Are Getting Old, They Blew Their Brains On Acid And Now They're Begging On Street Corners All Over San Francisco. Their Hair Is Tangled And Their Bare Feet Are Thick And Gray As Shoes. We're Sick Of Them.