The last time I saw Richard was Detroit in ‘68, and he told me "all romantics meet the same fate someday, cynical and drunk and boring someone in some dark cafe." You laugh, he says "you think you’re immune, go look at your eyes, they’re two blue moons. You like roses and kisses and pretty men to tell you all those pretty lies, pretty lies. When you gonna realize they’re only pretty lies. Just pretty lies, just pretty lies."

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