Not me, paranoia's the garlic in life's kitchen, right, you can never have too much.

What sort of an age is this where a man becomes one's enemy only when his back is turned?

He was visited on a lunar basis by these great unspecific waves of horniness, whereby all women within a certain age group and figure envelope became immediately and impossibly desirable. He emerged from these spells with eyeballs still oscillating and a wish that his neck could rotate through the full 360 degrees.

The Saint whose water can light lamps, the clairvoyant whose lapse in recall is the breath of God, the true paranoid for whom all is organized in spheres joyful or threatening about the central pulse of himself, the dreamer whose puns probe ancient fetid shafts and tunnels of truth all act in the same special relevance to the word, or whatever it is the word is there, buffering, to protect us from. The act of metaphor than was a thrust at truth and a lie, depending where you were: inside, safe or outside, lost.

He decided that we suffer from great temporal homesickness for the decade we were born in.

Not me, paranoia's the garlic in life's kitchen, right, you can never have too much.

All variables are independent.