Art Is The Reasoned Derangement

Erotic Love Is One Of The Highest Forms Of Contemplation.

The Dumping Of The Mentally Ill, Full Of These New Psychiatric Drugs, Into The Streets Is A Scandal. It's Been Carried Furthest In New York, Where Whole Sections Of The Decayed Upper West Side Are Being Filled With Pensioners And Psychotic Patients On Stelazine, Lithium Carbonate, And Everything Else Under The Sun. They Can't Diagnose The Patient, So They Give Him The Whole Psychiatric Pharmacopoeia At Once, And He Walks Around In A Psychotic Trance Beautifully Painted All Over With Petrochemicals.

We Have Forgotten Love, And Sat Lonely Beside Each Other. We Have Eaten Together, Lonely Behind Our Plates, We Have Hidden Behind Children, We Have Slept Together In A Lonely Bed. Now My Heart Turns Toward You, Awake At Last, Penitent, Lost In The Last Loneliness. Speak To Me. Talk To Me. Break The Black Silence.

Love Is The Garment Of Knowledge.

The Moral Issues With Which Marcus Struggles Would Be, As He Points Out, Unchanged Whether The Universe Were Mechanical And Devoid Of Meaning Or Value Or Ruled By Deity Or Providence; Whether The Will Were In Fact Free Or Determined; Whether There Were Or Were Not A Future Life, Or Any Even Fugitive Rewards And Punishments At All.