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“I was sick of songs about travel and making love in the sand. Slavery, imperialism, capitalism, unemployment, oh how ugly I am, but virtuous, my surgeon’s knife is slipping. I’d rather be in die ocean, floating like a log. My heart is cold. I feel so ashamed when people ask me what I do. It’s humiliating.
I’m alright. I appropriate infinitely but I am without investment, an unusable inessential asset. Under the throne I am the victim of thy might. I am gone with the wind. Pity the madmen of poor humankind – without knowledge, raving of glory, like me.
The garlands I bind are but gathered and strewn in the wind..”