Hawkeye: "So uh... What's next with him?" Trapper: "Starting tomorrow... He gets taller." From where ink drips to where it lives I only have so much to give But if my legs have been cut off I think they've carried me far enough I'm growing eyeballs, stop the floor My legs won't carry me anymore Give me a lease, cut me some slack Because my nerves are growing back I've had a numb, numb spot for days But everybody says that it's okay I'm popping stitches down my back But at least black bird's still got my back And when I think that I'm immune Everybody's mad cos it's too soon Am I a desperate basket case Or have I just not found my place? You think you know me now, okay But I'll be different day by day And on the days that I'm no use We'll call a temporary truce Extra arms and extra legs, No sixth sense or handsome face A nose is growing on my back But now my eyes are turning black I've seen way, way darker days But the spider says that I'm gonna be okay My dreams are slowly coming back And my nerves, my nerves are growing back I'm just an outline, just a sketch But you still say it under breath The shapes, they aren't all there But there's light and color everywhere I'm just a blueprint, this is shit But I think I'm getting used to it I grow my own limbs, get the knack Until my nerves start growing back Fran: "So what's it like then? You know, fags and booze?" Bernard: "Well to be honest, after years of smoking and drinking, you do sometimes look at yourself and think..." Fran: "Yep..." Bernard: "You know, just sometimes in between the first cigarette with coffee in the morning to that four-hundredth glass of corner shop piss at 3 AM... You do sometimes look at yourself and think..." Fran: "Yep..." Bernard: "This is fantastic. I'm in heaven."

George: "Let me ask you something, w-what do you do for a living, Newman?" Newman: "I'm a United States postal worker." George: "Aren't those the guys that always go crazy and come back with a gun and shoot everybody?" Newman: "... Sometimes." Jerry: "Why is that?" Newman: "Because the mail never stops! It just keeps coming and coming and coming, there's never a letup, it's relentless! Every day, it piles up more and more and more and you've gotta get it out, but the more you get out, the more it keeps coming it, and then the barcode reader breaks, and it's Publisher's Clearing House day!" Jerry: "Alright, alright, alright, just take the records, they're in the bedroom, take 'em, take anything you want!" Newman: "When you control the mail, you control... Information. I see many dogs on my mail route." Newman: "I was speaking earlier with Kramer and he mentioned something about a private jet to Paris? I hear it's quite beautiful there this time of year, and of course you know I'm one quarter French. I still have family there... I have a cousin there who's suffering very badly. She's lost all use of her muscles. She can only communicate by blinking! I would so love to see her, bring a ray of sunshine into her tragic life... But alas, I can't afford it, for I am, as you know, but a simple postal worker. For I am but a simple postal worker."

Dick: "You betcha, it's like I'm feeling my lungs for the first time. Tommy, have you smoked your cigarette yet?" Tommy: "Uh, no sir." Dick: "There's no reason to put it off." Harry: "You know, I must say, this second-hand smoke is smooth and satisfying." Dick: "My gift to you! If you want to advance, you're gonna have to open your mind to new experiences... Well... I've started again." The places we'll go When we decide to get away We'll take a bus And go to LA The sights we will see When it's just you and me I'll build us a boat And we'll live on the sea The music we'll play When there's nothing else to do We'll sing lots of songs I'll sing about you The places we'll go When we decide it's time to run We'll pack up our bags And go to the sun But if space is dead If it really is too soon Then I'll die on Earth And you'll go to the moon

O, space is dead The last alien just breathed his final breath The wars we've fought have crumbled down our fortress So we can see the charred space all around This isn't the end of us This is the end of everything that isn't us The end of everything that isn't just like us O, space is dead The terraforming farmer's lost his head We always thought the universe was teeming But we're the last things to float down the stream No we're not out of time This is the end of everything we'd ever find All souvenirs have been sold And I'm going to grow old Never knowing Is this all surbaffnee know furestuf eemrowf urmoffne?