Life Is A Message Scribbled In The

I Believe The Poor Fierce-eyed Child Had Figured Out That With A Mere Fifty Dollars In Her Purse She Might Somehow Reach Broadway Or Hollywood - Or The Foul Kitchen Of A Diner (help Wanted) In A Dismal Ex-prairie State, With The Wind Blowing, And The Stars Blinking, And The Cars, And The Bars, And The Barmen, And Everything Soiled, Torn, Dead.

Knowing You Have Something Good To Read Before Bed Is Among The Most Pleasurable Of Sensations.

For I Do Not Exist: There Exist But The Thousands Of Mirrors That Reflect Me.

Caress The Detail, The Divine Detail.

Only One Letter Divides The Comic From The Cosmic.