I Work Until Beer O'clock.

The Poets Continually And Sometimes Wilfully Mistake Love. Love Is The Old Slaughterer.

Jesus Watches From The Wall, But His Face Is Cold As Stone, And If He Loves Me As She Tells Me Why Do I Feel So All Alone?

Wow. This Makes Grand Central Look Like A Bus Stop In Buttfuck Nebraska.

He Had A Massive Stroke. He Died With His Tie On. Do You Think That Could Be Our Generation's Equivalent Of That Old Saying About Dying With Your Boots On?

When Asked, 'how Do You Write?' I Invariably Answer, 'one Word At A Time.'