Real, Fresh Data

Real, fresh data makes you want to lick your fingers long after initially handling it.

And this guy says, “Hell, I could’a been famous too if I had’a died a long time ago.”

If you really, really wanted to, you could treat your ordinary thoughts as boring relatives, and your everyday feelings as burglars.

I ran across this would-be mystical poet back in the City who, after a rather trying, if not inspiring night, told me that before his “very eyes, passed the picture of eternity,” but that 

it was a rerun.

In the City, a wise man flaunts it all.  (He's got no choice.)

Those who write odes to death (or have the inclination to do so) should be killed ASAP.

J.