It Isn'T Home

Then I remember it's not home; that place with white dresses, hats and pretty lace parasols, and studied looks from crooks and salesmen; no, no; it's none of these, it's me, my old life, and I watch the milk-girls and gigolos on Baxter Street, giving long, drawn looks into adjacent nebulae, ads for screen tests, and other black holes; and that's all well and dandy fine; but it isn't home, no, no; it isn't that.