The Pimp Has A Grin, Never A

I Don't Want To Disappear.

In Order To Weep, I Had Descended To The Realm Of The Dead Themselves, To Their Secret Chambers, Led By The Invisible But Soft Hands Of Birds Down Stairways Which Were Folded Up Again As I Advanced. I Displayed My Grief In The Friendly Fields Of Death, Far From Men: Within Myself.

The Vaporish Cocaine Loosens The Contours Of Their Lives And Sets Their Bodies Adrift, And So They Are Untouchable.

Perhaps All Music, Even The Newest, Is Not So Much Something Discovered As Something That Re-emerges From Where It Lay Buried In The Memory, Inaudible As A Melody Cut In A Disc Of Flesh. A Composer Lets Me Hear A Song That Has Always Been Shut Up Silent Within Me.

Every Premeditated Murder Is Always Governed By A Preparatory Ceremonial And Is Always Followed By A Propitiatory Ceremonial. The Meaning Of Both Eludes The Murderers Mind.