It Would Appear That Love Is Dead.

How Crazy Craziness Makes Everyone, How Irrationally Afraid. The Madness Hidden In Each Of Us, Called To, Identified, Aroused Like A Lust. And Against That The Jaw Sets. The More I Fear My Own Insanity The More I Must Punish Yours.

I'm Slammed With An Identity That Can No Longer Say A Word; Mute With Responsibility.

You May Well Ask How I Expect To Assert My Privacy By Resorting To The Outrageous Publicity Of Being One's Actual Self On Paper. There's A Possibility Of It Working If One Chooses The Terms, To Wit: Outshouting Image-gimmick America Through A Quietly Desperate Search For Self.

Coitus Can Scarcely Be Said To Take Place In A Vacuum; Although Of Itself It Appears A Biological And Physical Activity, It Is Set So Deeply Within The Larger Context Of Human Affairs That It Serves As A Charged Microcosm Of The Variety Of Attitudes And Values To Which Culture Subscribes. Among Other Things, It May Serve As A Model Of Sexual Politics On An Individual Or Personal Plane.

Ah, But Depression - That Is What We All Hate. We The Afflicted. Whereas The Relatives And Shrinks, The Tribal Ring, They Rather Welcome It: You Are Quiet And You Suffer.