I am all alone in my pad, man, my piled-up-to-the-ceil- ing-with-junk pad. Piled with sheet music, with piles of garbage bags bursting with rubbish and encrusted frying pans piled on the floor, embedded with unnameable flecks of putrified wretchedness in grease. My pad, man,
my own little Lower East Side Horse Badorties pad.