A heartless hand on my shoulder A push and it's over Alabaster crashes down Six months is a long time Tried living in the real world Instead of a shell But before I began I was bored before I even began

These tears I'm wailing, I spill not without reason. Remove them, my dearest love. Take me to the place I've been dreaming of, where the grotesquely lonely meet the grotesquely lonely and they whisper, just very softly, Please be mine, Dearest Love.

Humans are not really very humane.

America is not the world.

Nothing is important, so people, realising that, should get on with their lives, go mad, take their clothes off, jump in the canal, jump into one of those supermarket trolleys, race around the supermarket and steal Mars bars and kiss kittens.

My childhood is streets upon streets upon streets upon streets. Streets to define you and streets to confine you, with no sign of motorway, freeway or highway.

I'm cursed with the gift of foresight.