Down These Mean Streets A Man Must

One Would Think A Writer Would Be Happy Here — If A Writer Is Ever Happy Anywhere.

I Was As Hollow And Empty As The Spaces Between Stars.

All Art At Some Time And In Some Manner Becomes Mass Entertainment, And If It Does Not It Dies And Is Forgotten.

The Streets Were Dark With Something More Then Night.

The Truth Of Art Keeps Science From Becoming Inhuman, And The Truth Of Science Keeps Art From Becoming Ridiculous.