The Decline of Western Civilization Book 7.

I should think there is impetus, and motive of accumulating, rather than motive of searching through my belly button for the appropriate answers for the downtrodden in this age.

I should think there is something readily at hand, something ecumenical, relatable, something that maybe Terese would say to her pretty ones at nighttime.

I should think that when the stars threw down their spears and watered the desert floor with their tears, maybe there was something more, something beyond, something at the edge of the upper rim.

But it was just a feeling, the way one would feel a nickel, a kind of heft of minerals with stampings upon it.

 

It was an age of endearment; and any endearment could be purchased at any time from anyone whomsoever.

Such as it was, money was to be given, in some quarters, and taken, in other quarters.  However it was that the giants of old had it, Cato, Scipio, and the rest, much of the former luster had worn away into a kind of bored gleam.

The taking-in of numbers, of the making of books, there was some industry at it, and some negligible income to be had--subsistence, as of the sharecropper of old, and combine that with rental property, and we had the poverty of old rested upon, visited again on the modern age.  It seemed a life of ease was bought in increments of 8 dollar portions, given myriad to little chowders that were comparatively more desperate and much less at their leisure.  But their own leisure, the servant class, to be had in a kind of hard way, a kind of lying uncomfortably and passing into unconsciousness, an endless parade of minute-long film clips parading by until the battery died.