We Can't Be As Good As We'd

It Is The Act Of Reading Itself That I Miss, The Opportunity To Retreat Further And Further From The World Until I Have Found Some Space, Some Air That Isn't Stale, That Hasn't Been Breathed By My Family A Thousand Times Already.

Cynicism Is Our Shared Common Language, The Esperanto That Actually Caught On, And Though I'm Not Fluent In It - I Like Too Many Things, And I'm Not Envious Of Enough People - I Know Enough To Get By.

Asking The Head I Have Now To Explain Its Own Thinking Is As Pointless As Dialing Your Own Telephone Number On Your Own Telephone: Either Way, You Get An Engaged Signal. Or Your Own Answer Message, If You Have That Kind Of Phone System.

Barry, You're Over Thirty Years Old. You Owe It To Your Mum And Dad Not To Sing In A Group Called Sonic Death Monkey.

I Never Really Recovered From The Shock Of Discovering That Women Do What We Do; They Save Their Best Pairs For The Nights When They Are Going To Sleep With Somebody. When You Live With A Woman, These Faded, Shrunken Tatty Scraps Suddenly Appear On Radiators All Over The House; Your Lascivious Schoolboy Dreams Of Adulthood As A Time When You Are Surrounded By Exotic Lingerie For Ever And Ever Amen...those Dreams Crumble To Dust.