nothing can save you except writing. it keeps the walls from failing.

Where did all the women come from? The supply was endless. Each one of them was individual, different. Their pussies were different, their kisses were different, their breasts were different, but no man could drink them all, there were too many of them, crossing their legs, driving men mad. What a feast!

Most people are not ready for death, theirs or anybody elses.

Things will be far worse than they are now. And far better. I wait.

I am aware that a computer can’t create a poem, but neither can a typewriter.

the tigers have found me and I do not care.

I loved you like a man loves a woman he never touches, only writes to, keeps little photographs of.