There Is Still That Singular Perfection, And

A Certain Bohemian, Good-witch Sort Of Charm

It's The World, You Live In It, Even If Some Boy Has Made A Fool Of You.

What A Thrill, What A Shock, To Be Alive On A Morning In June, Prosperous, Almost Scandalously Privileged, With A Simple Errand To Run.

Man," He Said, "i'm Not Afraid Of Graveyards. The Dead Are Just, You Know, People Who Wanted The Same Things You And I Want." "what Do We Want?" I Asked Blurrily. "aw, Man, You Know," He Said. "we Just Want, Well, The Same Things These People Wanted." "what Was That?" He Shrugged. "to Live, I Guess," He Said.

Sure, Go Ahead, Simulate Life, Using Only Ink And Paper.