“...but what is vibrato if not a breaking down of the rigid divisions between pitches, a temporary ending of our sundered musical segmentation; we evoke the deepest and richest of our feelings by bending tones between the line spectrum of the Western scale, by ending its divisiveness; we locate what is most human in between, where we are no longer quantized, constrained...”

“it's true what they sang in that song, that video killed the radio star-how in the long war between the senses, the eye, in its unstoppable scorched-earth campaign, has mobilized a kind of technologi­cal Gresham's Law against radio, and has almost entirely sidelined it;”

“I mean, Ken has a policy of never taking even a one-granule snort when he's doing a show, and, though he's never said anything, it's assumed he expects the same from us; but there it is, God's terrestrial goodness, in exceedingly admirable quantity, and all of us just start giggling because, well, we just can't believe it... ; and we're all just standing there with our brains salivating, and then Kenny, y'know, while kind of looking down at the ground, Kenny hauls off and says:-Aw, what th' fuck ... ; it's our last week, i'n' it...? and he heads to the table in the corner and sits down;”

“I hear his heartbeats as my own, I feel his urgency as my own, our covalent union making of us both a new, charged, unknown substance; so too my skin, my liquidy skin, is both our separation and our merger, it is our shared, evanescent frontier; yet when he kisses the valley of my belly so long and so shiver-warm I realize that I am also beyond his skin's extremity, I am past the barrier of his skin, I am also living within him, for the juncture is no longer clear: utterly, entirely, I feel his response to me, I feel his churning when I surge; and it is sublime circuitry, this overlap, this confusion, giving me new contours, new periphery, expand­ing me into added dimensions,...”

“-So how about you?, I said: what do you do, if you don't mind my asking; -Not at all, he said: I'm into mitosis;-Aren't we all, I said;-”

“[B]etter the beauty of struggle and futility than the illusion of accomplishment; for as we struggle, he would seem to say, so are we beautiful.”

“...And all the while, accompanying my every step, The Photographer is sounding in my head, purling incessantly through my clamped-on Walkman; it's a good piece, Glass's homage to Muybridge, minimalism used to maximal effect: with its repeating rhythms, endlessly rechurning, the music resembles a wave that doesn't move, a standing wave; that's what you listen to, the change and unchange of the wave, not any emergent melody: listening not above, but within;”