I walk into the kitchen, look at the typer down there on the floor. It's a dirty floor. It's a dirty typer that types dirty stories

she knew what she wanted and it wasn't / me. / I know more women like that than any / other kind.

All a guy needed was a chance. Somebody was alway controlling who got a chance and who didn't.

Lighting new cigarettes, pouring more drinks. It has been a beautiful fight. Still is.

I have gotten so used to melancholia that I greet it like an old friend.

The whole LSD, STP, marijuana, heroin, hashish, prescription cough medicine crowd suffers from the "Watchtower" itch: you gotta be with us, man, or you're out, you're dead. This pitch is a continual and seeming MUST with those who use the stuff. It's no wonder they keep getting busted.

It’s hard to drink when you dance. And it’s hard to dance when you drink.