The cowboy music twanged in the roadhouse and carried across the fields, all sadness. It was all right with me. I kissed my baby and we put out the lights.

Sweet life continues in the breeze, in the golden fields.

I mean, why on earth (outside sickness and hangovers) aren't people continually drunk? I want ecstasy of the mind all the time.

Paris is a woman but London is an independent man puffing his pipe in a pub.

We wandered in a frenzy and a dream (301).

But there's no joy at all, people say "Oh well he's drunk and happy let him sleep it off"--The poor drunkard is *crying*--He's crying for his mother and father and great brother and great friend, he's crying for help. (p.111)

When you start separating people from their rivers, what have you got? Bureaucracy!