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kenkantor: That look of love, it's in your eyes.
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kenkantor: Another wannabee assassin.
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kenkantor: Before you were born, after you die.
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kenkantor: This was the sacred place where perfectly parallel lines meet.
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kenkantor: These tracks they are a changing.
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kenkantor: Them, too?
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kenkantor: She said, "Follow me!" So we did.
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kenkantor: No New York.
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kenkantor: Up. They go up.
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kenkantor: Another evening of strange tortures.
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kenkantor: When you're alone and life is making you lonely.
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kenkantor: MoMA told me not to come.
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kenkantor: A late New York minute.
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kenkantor: That place far beyond happiness or sorrow.