What Do You Want A Clock For?”

Happily For Me, Ninety-nine Percent Of All Human Life Is Spent Simply Repeating The Same Old Actions, Speaking The Same Tired Clichés, Moving Like A Zombie Through The Same Steps Of The Dance We Plodded Through Yesterday And The Day Before And The Day Before. It Seems Horribly Dull And Pointless-but It Really Makes A Great Deal Of Sense. After All, If You Only Have To Follow The Same Path Every Day, You Don't Need To Think At All. Considering How Good Humans Are At Any Mental Process More Complicated Than Chewing, Isn't That The Best For Everybody?

I Sighed; As Comforting As It May Be To Some Of Us, Sarcasm, Like Youth, Is Wasted On The Young.

For My Part, My Interest In Paris Had Faded Away Completely Long Ago When I Learned That It Was In France.

It's That Moon Again, Slung So Fat And Low In The Tropical Night, Calling Out Across A Curdled Sky And Into The Quivering Ears Of That Dear Old Voice In The Shadows, The Dark Passenger, Nestled Snug In The Backseat Of The Dodge K-car Of Dexter's Hypothetical Soul. That Rascal Moon, That Loudmouthed Leering Lucifer, Calling Down Across The Empty Sky To The Dark Hearts Of The Night Monsters Below, Calling Them Away To Their Joyful Playgrounds.

She Really Did Like Me, The Idiot.