A writer takes earnest measures to secure his solitude and then finds endless ways to squander it.

We commit our crimes at night and reveal ourselves in the high noon of studio lights.

In these night recitations we create a space between things as we felt them at the time and as we speak them now. This is the space reserved for irony, sympathy and fond amusement, the means by which we rescue ourselves from the past.

why something and not nothing? why music and not noise?

And what's the point of waking up in the morning if you don't try to match the enormousness of the known forces in the world with something powerful in your own life?

Before pop art, there was such a thing as bad taste. Now there's kitsch, schlock, camp, and porn.

Nostalgia is a product of dissatisfaction and rage. It´s a settling of grievances between the present and the past.