_ The boulevardier took to the streets, transforming them into gilded pathways to the high life. He insisted on doing so during those times deemed auspicious by the dictates of refined living. Are you a boulevardier?
_ The waiter waits for the bon vivant to select something. Undoubtedly, without a doubt, the selection will be as engaging as would a champagne bubble, having left the flute, bursting in the nasal passages of one to whom sneezing is a private affair. If you see me on the boulevard, then, yes, I am a boulevardier; if you see me elsewhere, then I am lost.
_ Do you suppose that people would be best served if time were to stand still?
_ That would make it hard to promenade. It would be the end of us boulevardiers, bon vivant's and dandy's. It would, however, allow for the rest of life to continue unimpeded by the drudgery of change - everything would be exactly as it is. Isn't that what we count on in our excursions out of our caves?
_ The drudgery of change... If our mind hasn't fully shit the bed, if our hearts aren't completely broken, then we don't understand change, instead we merely deal with alterations to a rigid certainty.
_ What of the goddess who holds her own severed head; and smiles?
_ It makes for a good question. Did you know that there are a race of people who talk about the weather?
_ I talk to the sky. I love it for its supreme disinterest.
_ Did you say something?
_ What does a boulevardier drink in between shifts?
_ Anything effervescent, so long as its colorful and laced with LSD.
_ Make it two.
_ Two it is; two it is; two it is. Two... I think I'll have another.
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... Let's do away with points of reference and live a little.
... Why love?
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