Things Are Symbols Of Themselves.

I Saw The Best Minds Of My Generation Destroyed By Madness, Starving Hysterical Naked, Dragging Themselves Through The Negro Streets At Dawn Looking For An Angry Fix Angelheaded Hipsters Burning For The Ancient Heavenly Connection To The Starry Dynamo In The Machinery Of The Night.

Everybody's Serious But Me.

I Like The Image Of The Old Man And The Sea, Of Striving And Succeeding But Finding That The Success Was Ghost Success. In Other Words, In The Long Run, After A Certain Age, The Motives For Success, Pride Or Oppressing People Or Getting Power.

That's What The Shaman Said. He Didn't Know What He Was Up Against. He Didn't Expect The Strength And Weight And Evil Intensity Of This Spirit, This "entity," As He Called It. The Same Way The Priest In An Exorcism Has To Take On The Spirit.

We Love To Be Hurt And We Love To Have Our Unhealing Wounds Opened And Reopened Again: We Sit Staring In The Mirror Of Art, Fascinated By Our Own Deformities.