The funeral march, slow and lugubrious

hypgnosis sends me swirling lazily around the drain of hebetudinousness

Whatever it is, it’s certain to be yet another turgid, overhyped foray into Kaufman’s self-referential, self-congratulatory psyche

He is, I conclude, a poseur of the most odious sort, beloved by beret-wearing undergraduates, who, in their nescience (surely they are so nescient they don’t even know the word nescience! Ha!),

there is something comforting about being swathed in all that grand Goodman gabardine

I’m happy to marvel at the billowing black noxious beauty of it, at the rib-cracking hacking, the caterwauling symphony of coughs and screams

Is it that we share a similar cranial design and that by this similarity I infer a similar intelligence, a similar Weltanschauung?