When You're Not Feeling Holy, Your Loneliness

I Wish I Could Say Everything In One Word. I Hate All The Things That Can Happen Between The Beginning Of A Sentence And The End.

I've Never Thought Of Myself As A Singer Anyway. . . I've Been Free From Those Considerations Because So Many People Over The Years Told Me I Don't Have A Voice. I Kind Of Bought That. I Never Thought That Much About It To Begin With. I Knew I Didn't Have One Of The Great Voices. As My Damon Runyanesque Lawyer Used To Say, "none Of You Guys Can Sing. If I Want To Hear Singing, I'll Go To The Metropolitan Opera."

Seven To Eleven Is A Huge Chunk Of Life, Full Of Dulling And Forgetting. It Is Fabled That We Slowly Lose The Gift Of Speech With Animals, That Birds No Longer Visit Our Windowsills To Converse. As Our Eyes Grow Accustomed To Sight They Armor Themselves Against Wonder.

Even Without The Mushroom Cloud Still I Would Have Hated Listen I Would Have Done The Same Things Even If There Were No Death I Will Not Be Held Like A Drunkard Under The Cold Tap Of Facts I Refuse The Universal Alibi

I Noticed That When I Was On Prozac My Relationship With The Landscape Improved. I Actually Stopped Thinking About Myself For A Minute Or Two, Because Most Of The Thoughts One Has About Oneself Are Involved With Desire Or Loneliness Or Isolation Or Strategies To Overcome Them.