Feeling better through buying is the city short cut to feeling better through buying.
    “So what’s wrong with a zebra behaving zebraly?!”
(Question: Why do city-ites always get defensive when their locale is mentioned?)
 

On one world, on the same day, everyone simultaneously had their autobiography published: “My Life As Someone Else”  --  which were quickly withdrawn
due to a printing error: the title was supposed to be:
“My Erroneous Impression Of A Life As Someone Else.”
 

Men making what they call, coincidence equal what they call, magic,
requires that they have minds like the bottom of chicken coops.
 

Offers this query, one chap:
“Why do men find the portrayal of the travails of people behaving abnormally
to be entertaining?”
 

“Strange,” pondered one fellow:
“if man’s true glory is his capacity for problem solving,
is not the greatest problem to be solved:
'How to change one’s natural born state of consciousness?'  --  and yet:
how few undertake it  --   or even consider it.”
 

Whenever he was asked if he had said or written a particular thing
in response to something he had heard or read, one man would always reply:
“What do you think?”   (and not with the accent on “you”).
 

Ordinary, memory-based consciousness is like a turd without a mandate:
unable to completely divorce itself from its past.
Having a normal consciousness that is inescapably tied to your memories
is being asleep and unable to see clearly what is actually going on in real time.
 

Conversation.
“In spite of the wondrous diagnostic technology they have developed:
if people knew how little doctors actually understand about the body’s health
they would desert them en mass.”
    “They haven’t done so with priests.”
 

In homage to Broadway, when he opens his eyes each morning the first thing
one man does is glance toward his arousing mind and declare: “Send In The Clowns.”
 

Music In The City.
In mundane affairs, when you get old, Bo Diddley can’t diddle like he did before,
but a man committed to blowing out the sides of his consciousness
can keep on chugglin'  to the very end.
“Yeah sure,” said the man from his hospital bed, “they took away my foot,
a lung, and part of my stomach  --  but they didn’t get THIS!”
 

For a while, one man constantly confused the words: conclusion and concussion  --  then stopped worrying about it --  after realizing its mootness.
 

The lecturer opened: “Today I want to speak to you about a most bizarre situation
in one place: where everyone realizes what everyone is  --  except their self,”
and a voice in the audience yelled:
“What kind of commonplace thing is that to be talking about!”
 

Dialogue.
“Would you say that drugs are the city’s substitute for awakening?”
    “No, the city itself is.”
 

A man with a mission in life doesn’t (from a certain alien view) have  a real life.

Tete-a-tete.
“Cheap men have an explanation for everything.”
    “For their cheapness, you mean?!”
Fact.
When you live in the city  --  you can’t hide the fact.
 

Consciousness is like mercury poured on a piece of glass;
in ordinary men it will never roll out to the edges  --
that comes only through trying to get-to-the-bottom-of-things.
 

The way you can determine with accuracy that you are true-blue-ordinary
is that the things most important to you are all outside of you.
“Sometimes I am confused.”
    “When specifically?”
“Every morning when I awaken.”
And a psychiatrist enters with this observation:
“Being confused can be a good sign  --  it shows you are still alive.”
    “Yes -- and living in the city.”
 

Confabulation.
“There’s only one person we can’t resist  --  our self.”
    “That’s because it’s the only one we can’t get hold of.”
“Maybe  --  but consider in full what you’re saying.”
 

At odd times, one man’s cortex would glance down to his heart and say:
“Can you believe it  --  I’m still ticking!”
 

An Actual (Though To Most, So Disturbing As To Be Ignored) Fact Of The City.
Only athletes and farmers actually know what they’re doing.