..few writers like other writers' works. The only time they like them is when they are dead or if they have been for a long time. Writers only like to sniff their own turds. I am one of those. I don't even like to talk to writers, look at them or worse, listen to them. And the worst is to drink with them, they slobber all over themselves, really look piteous, look like they are searching for the wing of the mother. I'd rather think about death than about other writers. Far more pleasant.

Long ago, among other lies they were taught that silence was bravery.

Why did I come here? I thought. Why is it always only a matter of choosing between something bad and something worse?

I hid in bars, because I didn't want to hide in factories.

It will rain all this night and we will sleep transfixed by the dark water as our blood runs through our fragile life.

It's just that the grape has me down.

The writing's easy, it's the living that is sometimes difficult.