Rock Is Much More Malleable Than Ideas.

History Is A Wave That Moves Through Time Slightly Faster Than We Do.

We All Have Secret Lives. The Life Of Excretion; The World Of Inappropriate Sexual Fantasies; Our Real Hopes, Our Terror Of Death; Our Experience Of Shame; The World Of Pain; And Our Dreams. No One Else Knows These Lives. Consciousness Is Solitary. Each Person Lives In That Bubble Universe That Rests Under The Skull, Alone.

On The River Path In Boston Beauty Was Most Expressed As Youth And Intelligence. That Made Sense; Sixty Degree-giving Institutions, Some Three Hundred Thousand Students; That Meant At Least One Hundred Fifty Thousand More Nubile Young Women Than Demographics Would Ordinarily Suggest. Maybe That Was Why Young Men Stayed In Boston When Their College Years Were Over, Maybe That Explained Why They Were So Intellectually Hyperactive, So Frustrated, So Alcoholic, Such Terrible Drivers.

You Can Only Kill Disappointment With A New Try.

But Lies Were What People Wanted; That Was Politics.