i was born to hustle roses down the avenue of the dead.

terror finally becomes almost bearable but never quite terror creeps like a cat crawls like a cat across my mind

I was a bore and didn't know when to smile or fake it. Or rather worse, I did but didn't.

I don't like jail, they got the wrong kind of bars in there.

my mother, poor fish, wanting to be happy, beaten two or three times a week, telling me to be happy: "Henry, smile! why don't you ever smile?" and then she would smile, to show me how, and it was the saddest smile I ever saw

Where some god pissed a rain of reason to make things grow only to die.

I no longer want it all, just some comfort and some sex and some minor love.