There Was A House We All Had

Not For Moorcock The Painful, Infrequent Excretion Of Dry Little Novels Like So Many Rabbit Pellets; His Is The Grand, Messy Fluxitself, In All Its Heroic Vulgarity, Its Unquenchable Optimism, Its Enthusiasm For The Inexhaustible Variousness Of Things.

Ordered Me A Sky From A Florist

I Think I Want To Be In Love With You But I Don't Know How.

Is Not This World An Illusion? And Yet It Fools Everybody.

There Was A House We All Had In Common And It Was Called The Past, Even Though We'd Lived In Different Rooms.