Every Word She Writes Is A Lie,

What I Really Do Is Take Real Plums And Put Them In An Imaginary Cake. If You're Interested In The Cake, You Get Rather Annoyed With People Saying What Species The Real Plum Was.

In Moments Of Despair, We Look On Ourselves Lead-enly As Objects; We See Ourselves, Our Lives, As Someone Else Might See Them And May Even Be Driven To Kill Ourselves If The Separation, The "knowledge," Seems Sufficiently Final.

Every Age Has A Keyhole To Which Its Eye Is Pasted.

It Has To Be Acknowledged That In Capitalist Society, With Its Herds Of Hippies, Originality Has Become A Sort Of Fringe Benefit, A Mere Convention, Accepted Obsolescence, The Beatnik Model Being Turned In For The Hippie Model, As Though Strangely Obedient To Capitalist Laws Of Marketing.

On The Wall Of Our Life Together Hung A Gun Waiting To Be Fired In The Final Act.