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I was in a prison of golden eschatological chamber music, looking upon a lover and all the while dying in the street. Soaked in the rain, reading a paperback. Wishing you would offer me a coin or two, hoping it wouldn't lead to insipid subjectivity. From the window of a passing car - a weeping aria for the Loose Cannon - wishing a French girl would send him a message sweeter than Maria Callas's voice. Upon her death Aristotle called to the Gods "Bail out the greek, bail out the Greek!" Punks passed rearing talking horses, making small talk with old folk singers sucking lollipop violins. Conservative dreams looked on in disbelief. It has all so been and gone, sexually speaking of course. Hope that sheikh mercury morons on hot air balloons don't think ill of me and all my women.
I tried to get away from past anchors, to free myself from the Ancien Régime. It has been exposed. Voici le temps des Assassins.