I Am Entirely Alone. I And My

Ordered Me A Sky From A Florist

Nostalgia, The Vice Of The Aged.

He Is, I Think, Already Pondering A Magisterial Project: That Of Buggering The English Language, The Ultimate Revenge Of The Colonialised.

Not For Moorcock The Painful, Infrequent Excretion Of Dry Little Novels Like So Many Rabbit Pellets; His Is The Grand, Messy Fluxitself, In All Its Heroic Vulgarity, Its Unquenchable Optimism, Its Enthusiasm For The Inexhaustible Variousness Of Things.

I Should Have Liked To Have Had Him Beside Me In A Glass Coffin, So That I Could Watch Him All The Time And He Would Not Have Been Able To Get Away From Me.