Every One Of My Books Had Killed

We Sail Across Dominions Barely Seen, Washed By The Swells Of Time. We Plow Through Fields Of Magnetism. Past And Future Come Together On Thunderheads And Our Dead Hearts Live With Lightning In The Wounds Of The Gods.

Patterned After An Italian Renaissance Palace, It Is 88 Times As Large And One Millionth As Valuable To The Continuation Of Man. That Pentagon Of Traveling Salesmen.

A Political Convention Is After All Not A Meeting Of A Corporation's Board Of Directors; It Is A Fiesta, A Carnival, A Pig-rooting, Horse-snorting, Band-playing, Voice-screaming Medieval Get-together Of Greed, Practical Lust, Compromised Idealism, Career-advancement, Meeting, Feud, Vendetta, Conciliation, Of Rabble-rousers, Fist Fights (as It Used To Be), Embraces, Drunks (again As It Used To Be) And Collective Rivers Of Animal Sweat.

The Sickness Of Our Times For Me Has Been Just This Damn Thing That Everything Has Been Getting Smaller And Smaller And Less And Less Important, That The Romantic Spirit Has Dried Up, That There Is No Shame Today. We're All Getting So Mean And Small And Petty And Ridiculous, And We All Live Under The Threat Of Extermination.

Chicago Is The Great American City, New York Is One Of The Capitals Of The World, And Los Angeles Is A Constellation Of Plastic; San Francisco Is A Lady