I Am Not One Of These People

The Ability To Dream Is All I Have To Give. That Is My Responsibility; That Is My Burden. And Even I Grow Tired.

They Change Scapegoats At The Networks More Regularly Than Some People Change Socks.

Perfection. Excellence. What A Passionate Lover. But Once Having Tasted The Lips Of Excellence, Once Having Given Oneself To Its Perfection, How Dreary And Burdensome And Filled With Anomie Are The Remainder Of One's Waking Hours Trapped In The Shackled Lock-step Of The Merely Ordinary, The Barely Acceptable, The Just Okay And Not A Stroke Better.

I Have But Nothing To Say To Young Girls. They're Fine To Look At, In The Way I Would Look At A Case Filled With Shang Dynasty Glazes, But Expecting To Carry On A Conversation With The Average Teen-aged Young Lady Is Akin To Reading Voltaire To A Cage Filled With Chimpanzees. I'm Certain They Would Feel The Same Alienation For Me. I Can Live With That Knowledge.

When You're All Alone Out There, On The End Of The Typewriter, With Each New Story A New Appraisal By The World Of Whether You Can Still Get It Up Or Not, Arrogance And Self-esteem And Deep Breathing Are All You Have. It Often Looks Like Egomania. I Assure You It's The Bold Coverup Of The Absolutely Terrified.