Alone with everybody the flesh covers the bone, and they put a mind in there and sometimes a soul, and the women break vases against the walls and them men drink too much and nobody finds the one, but they keep looking crawling in and out of beds. Flesh covers the bone and the flesh searches for more than flesh. There's no chance at all:we are all trapped by a singular fate. Nobody ever finds the one. The city dumps fill the junkyards fill the mad houses fill the hospitals fill the graveyards fill nothing else fills.

Love Is a Dog from Hell