Whatever People Think I Am Or Say

The Art Of Writing Is To Explain The Complications Of The Human Soul With The Simplicity That Can Be Universally Understood.

Walking The Streets On Winter Nights Kept Him Warm, Despite The Cold Nocturnal Passions Of Uprising Winds. His Footsteps Led Between Trade-marked Houses, Two Up And Two Down, With Digital Chimneys Like Pigs' Tits On The Rooftops Sending Up Heat And Smoke Into The Cold Trough Of A Windy Sky. Stars Hid Like Snipers, Taking Aim Now And Again When Clouds Gave Them A Loophole. Winter Was An Easy Time For Him To Hide His Secrets, For Each Dark Street Patted His Shoulder And Became A Friend, And The Gaseous Eye Of Each Lamp Glowed Unwinking As He Passed.

The Long-distance Run Of An Early Morning Makes Me Think That Every Run Like This Is A Life- A Little Life, I Know- But A Life As Full Of Misery And Happiness And Things Happening As You Can Ever Get Really Around Yourself

All I'm Out For Is A Good Time - All The Rest Is Propaganda.

Whatever People Think I Am Or Say I Am, That's What I Am Not.