He's A Really Nice Guy, If Only

I Couldn't Help But Think, This Car Is Taking Me To A Mental Hospital And My Mother Is Treating It Like Open-mic Night At A Greenwich Village Café.

For Exactly The Same Reason, It Is Sometimes Satisfying To Cut Yourself And Bleed. On Those Gray [sic] Days Where Eight In The Morning Looks No Different From Noon And Nothing Has Happened And Nothing Is Going To Happen And You Are Washing A Glass In The Sink And It Breaks - Accidentally - And Punctures Your Skin. And Then There Is This Shocking Red, The Brightest Thing In The Day, So Vibrant It Buzzes, This Blood Of Yours. That Is Okay Sometimes Because At Least You Know You're Alive.

The Truth About Not Having Everything You Need, Not Being Fully Equipped Or Qualified Or Allowed Is That These Limits Are The Nebula Of Creative Genius. When You Have Total Freedom I.e: No Limits At All. You Stop Trying To Make The Best Of Things

There's Never A False Note In A Berg Novel.

Women Smirk At Baldness. How Adorable Would They Find It If They Began To Lose Their Breasts In Their Late Twenties? If Both Tits Just Shrunk Up - Unevenly I Might Add - And Eventually Turned Into Wine-cork Nubs. Then It Would Be A Different Story. Then Men Would Get The Pity That They Deserve. As Far As I'm Concerned, Baldness Is The Male Breast Cancer Only Worse, Because Almost Everyone Gets It. True, It's Not Life Threatening. Just Social-life Threatening. But In New York City, There Is No Difference.