Music Is Dangerous In So Many Ways.

If I Were A Writer, How I Would Enjoy Being Told The Novel Is Dead. How Liberating To Work In The Margins, Outside A Central Perception. You Are The Ghoul Of Literature. Lovely.

Say Heat. Say Wet Between My Legs. Say Legs. Seriously, I Want You To. Stockings. Whisper It. The Word Is Meant To Be Whispered.

Because Friends Have To Be Brutally Honest With Each Other. I'd Feel Terrible If I Didn't Tell You What I Was Thinking, Especially At A Time Like This

The Future Belongs To Crowds.

When I Work I Have A Sculptor's Sense Of The Shape Of The Words I'm Making. I Use A Machine With Larger Than Average Letters: The Bigger The Better.