So, this geezer breezes down my road looking for all the world like the risen Christ. Stone the crows, methinks. It’s sooooo him. And there was me athinkin’ aforehand that the degree of credence placed in the spiritual by the human brain is directly equivalent to some as-yet undiscovered measure of stupidity. Shame on me. Shame on my unborn children. Shame on my mother for not abortin’ me in the mouth of her insurrection. Shame on me for believing that we is just animals born to die. As if…. And Kentucky agrees, but he likes the idea of 72 virgin houris waiting for him in paradise. Except 72 doesn’t sound like enough. Not if he’s gonna be there forever. As Alfie says, whenever you see a beautiful woman, just remember that somewhere there’s a guy who’s tired of fucking her. Anyway, the last time I saw Kentucky was Detroit in ’63, and he told me, ‘All Romantics end the same way someday, cynical and drunk and boring someone in some dark cafe.’ And I said to him, ‘Pardon?’