The street to my left was backed up with traffic and I watched the people waiting patiently in the cars. There was almost always a man and a women, staring straight ahead, not talking. It was, finally, for everyone, a matter of waiting. You waited and you waited- for the hospital, the doctor, the plumber, the madhouse, the jail, papa death himself. First the signal red, then the signal was green. The citizens of the world ate food and watched t.v. and worried about their jobs or lack of the same, while they waited.
Charles BukowskiI had no interests. I had no interest in anything. I had no idea how I was going to escape. At least the others had some taste for life. They seemed to understand something that I didnโt understand. Maybe I was lacking. It was possible. I often felt inferior. I just wanted to get away from them. But there was no place to go. Suicide? Jesus Christ, just more work. I felt like sleeping for five years but they wouldnโt let me.
Charles Bukowskii am with the roots of flowers entwined, entombed sending up my passionate blossoms as a flight of rockets and argument; wine churls my throat, above me feet walk upon my brain, monkies fall from the sky clutching photographs of the planets, but i seek only music and the leisure of my pain
Charles BukowskiYes?โ he asked, looking at me over the sheet. โIโm a writer temporarily down on my inspirations.โ โOh, a writer, eh?โ โYes.โ โAre you sure?โ โNo, Iโm not.โ โWhat do you write?โ โShort stories mostly. And Iโm halfway through a novel.โ โA novel, eh?โ โYes.โ โWhatโs the name of it?โ โโThe Leaky Faucet of My Doom.โโ โOh, I like that. Whatโs it about?โ โEverything.โ โEverything? You mean, for instance, itโs about cancer?โ โYes.โ โHow about my wife?โ โSheโs in there too.
Charles Bukowski