You're On Earth. There's No Cure For

The Bicycle Is A Great Good. But It Can Turn Nasty, If Ill Employed.

Perhaps My Best Years Are Gone. When There Was A Chance Of Happiness. But I Wouldn't Want Them Back. Not With The Fire In Me Now. No, I Wouldn't Want Them Back.

To-morrow, When I Wake, Or Think I Do, What Shall I Say Of To-day?

James Joyce Was A Synthesizer, Trying To Bring In As Much As He Could. I Am An Analyzer, Trying To Leave Out As Much As I Can.

The Reality Of The Individualis An Incoherent Reality And Must Be Expressed Incoherently.