New York Seems Conducted By

What A Mystery This Is, Desire. The Love Sickness, The Sensitivity, The Obsession, The Flutter Of The Heart, The Ebb And Flow Of The Blood. There Is No Drug And No Alcohol To Equal It.

The Inner Chambers Of The Soul Are Like The Photographer's Darkroom. Like A Laboratory. One Cannot Stay There All The Time Or It Becomes The Solitary Cell Of The Neurotic.

My Trunk, Valises And My Mind Are Overpacked.

We Do Not See The World As It Is. We See The Word As We Are.

I Have No Brakes On...analysis Is For Those Who Are Paralyzed By Life.