The apparition of an evil, sick unconscious wild city rose before me in visible semblance, and about the dead buildings in the barren air, the bodies of the soul that built the wonderland shuffled and stalked and stalked and lurched in attitudes of immemorial nightmare all around.

The hero surviving his own murder, his own suicide, his own addiction, surviving his own disappearance from the scene

in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night

What if someone gave a war and Nobody came?

The best thing about being famous is that it makes it easier to get laid.

War is good business Invest your son

Taxi September along Jessore Road Oxcart skeletons drag charcoal load past watery fields thru rain flood ruts Dung cakes on treetrunks, plastic-roof huts Wet processions Families walk Stunted boys big heads don't talk Look bony skulls & silent round eyes Starving black angels in human disguise.