I am one of those that always get accidentally guillotined when the Great Day of Liberation comes, because ... I guess ... I am full of parentheses. Revolutions can't abide parentheses.

And here is our girl, looking-- If possible, worse than before. (You thought this was Cinderella transistorized?)

Being, I imagine, must be very simple. It is Becoming which is so messy and which I am all for.

Anyone who shoots a real gun at you when drunk and angry is simply not husband material, regardless of his taste in literature.

Any chance beats no chance.

Did you ever look into the personalities of male cooks, Army, logging camp, etc.? They're all supposed to be crazy, incomprehensible, contemptible. And angry. The act of feeding adult males seems to have strange personality effects.

Certainly my inner world will never be a peaceful place of bloom; it will have some peace, and occasional riots of bloom, but always a little fight going on too. There is no way I can be peacefully happy in this society and in this skin. I am committed to Uneasy Street. I like it; it is my idea that this street leads to the future, and that I am being true to a way of life which is not here yet, but is more real than what is here.