I Was Twelve When I Read My

There Was A Beauty In The Trash Of The Alleys Which I Had Never Noticed Before; My Vision Seemed Sharpened, Rather Than Impaired. As I Walked Along It Seemed To Me That The Flattened Beer Cans And Papers And Weeds And Junk Mail Had Been Arranged By The Wind Into Patterns; These Patterns, When I Scrutinized Them, Lay Distributed So As To Comprise A Visual Language.

But An Artist, He Realized. Or Rather So-called Artist. Bohemian. That's Closer To It. The Artistic Life Without The Talent.

But At Least He Can Still See The Lights Below Us. Although Maybe For Him It Doesn't Matter.

Drug Misuse Is Not A Disease, It Is A Decision, Like The Decision To Step Out In Front Of A Moving Car. You Would Call That Not A Disease But An Error In Judgment. When A Bunch Of People Begin To Do It, It Is A Social Error, A Life-style. In This Particular Life-style The Motto Is "be Happy Now Because Tomorrow You Are Dying," But The Dying Begins Almost At Once, And The Happiness Is A Memory.

How'd You Like To Gaze At A Beer Can Throughout Eternity? It Might Not Be So Bad. There'd Be Nothing To Fear.