The streets are lonely of people even when the streets are full of people there is emptiness , so much stuff going on, cheap rooms and cheap wine , scared old men masturbating away their fears on someone already dead , poor Marylin , I heard she wrote poetry , there was a lonely person , too much of too much, and the bars and the bums, and hookers all wanting too much, and the advertising man, politician, burnt out rock star, sadhu, wanting too much, and the couple in the alley kissing and making out hunting the flesh and the abusive husband violence his game , and the music blaring at you , jazz, rock, blues, rappers going nuts , people stuffing themselves till their guts bursting with their entrails exploding over cityscapes , a meteor shower of shit of too much, the struggle to be, the struggle to be anything but you.