We Want Someone To Bring Us The

Say A Word, Say A Thousand To Me On The Telephone And I Shall Choose The Wrong One To Cling To As Though You Had Said It After Long Deliberation When Only I Provoked It From You, I Will Cling To It From Among A Thousand, To Be Provoked And Hurl It Back With Something I Mean No More Than You Meant That, Something For You To Cling To And Retreat Clinging To.

We're Comic. We're All Comics. We Live In A Comic Time. And The Worse It Gets The More Comic We Are.

Everybody Has That Feeling When They Look At A Work Of Art And It's Right, That Sudden Familiarity, A Sort Of...recognition, As Though They Were Creating It Themselves, As Though It Were Being Created Through Them While They Look At It Or Listen To It.

I See The Player Piano As The Grandfather Of The Computer, The Ancestor Of The Entire Nightmare We Live In, The Birth Of The Binary World Where There Is No Option Other Than Yes Or No And Where There Is No Refuge.

Tragedy Was Foresworn, In Ritual Denial Of The Ripe Knowledge That We Are Drawing Away From One Another, That We Share Only One Thing, Share The Fear Of Belonging To Another, Or To Others, Or To God; Love Or Money, Tender Equated In Advertising And The World, Where Only Money Is Currency, And Under Dead Trees And Brittle Ornaments Prehensile Hands Exchange Forgeries Of What The Heart Dare Not Surrender.