After years of travel, study and scholarship, one man was suddenly struck with the insight that all art, all literature, all music and poetry, that man has ever writ comprise disguised discourses on the power of sex; for several days afterwards he experienced severe depression, then on a Tuesday, while washing dishes, a surprising question abruptly presented itself causing him to ponder thusly, “Rather than being disturbed by my discovery of crude old sex driving even the highest of man’s cultural endeavors, I should ask myself – ‘What would be the alternative?’” (He was immediately so relieved that water spots on his glasses no longer presented a problem.)
One City fellow’s latest brain storm
(if not “minor inclemency”) is that
“Everyone should bleach their hair
blonde – if possible.”
(The try-outs were held before you got here.)
Being intellectually alive makes everyone ill…
some notice it more than others.
Density Check, Level Seven:
Those who criticize their parents
don’t know who their real parents are.
“Poverty is the poetry of the poor.” –
Some graffiti in the men’s room of the City’s
most exclusive private club.
(Your Neural Archeologist’s Side Note:
Private clubs exist both "out there"
where they can be seen, and somewhere else.)