Our History Is An Aggregate Of Last

So Generation After Generation Of Men In Love With Pain And Passivity Serve Out Their Time In The Zone, Silent, Redolent Of Faded Sperm, Terrified Of Dying, Desperately Addicted To The Comforts Others Sell Them, However Useless, Ugly Or Shallow, Willing To Have Life Defined For Them By Men Whose Only Talent Is For Death.

Ills Are Many, Blessings Few, But Dreams Tonight Will Shelter You.

He Was Visited On A Lunar Basis By These Great Unspecific Waves Of Horniness, Whereby All Women Within A Certain Age Group And Figure Envelope Became Immediately And Impossibly Desirable. He Emerged From These Spells With Eyeballs Still Oscillating And A Wish That His Neck Could Rotate Through The Full 360 Degrees.

But As With Maxwell's Demon, So Now. Either She Could Not Communicate, Or He Did Not Exist.

I Came," She Said, "hoping You Could Talk Me Out Of A Fantasy." Cherish It!" Cried Hilarious, Fiercely. "what Else Do Any Of You Have? Hold It Tightly By It's Little Tentacle, Don't Let The Freudians Coax It Away Or The Pharmacists Poison It Out Of You. Whatever It Is, Hold It Dear, For When You Lose It You Go Over By That Much To The Others. You Begin To Cease To Be.