t was almost disappointing because it seemed when stress and madness were eliminated from my daily life there wasn't much left you could depend on.

Each person is only given so many evenings and each wasted evening is a gross violation against the natural course of your only life.

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

I like to change liquor stores frequently because the clerks got to know your habits if you went in night and day and bought huge quantities. I could feel them wondering why I wasn't dead yet and it made me uncomfortable. They probably weren't thinking any such thing, but then a man gets paranoid when he has 300 hangovers a year.

They, all of them, seemed to put literary form in front of the actuality and living of life itself.

little sun little moon little dog and a little to eat and a little to love and a little to live for in a little room filled with little mice who gnaw and dance and run while I sleep waiting for a little death in the middle of a little morning in a little city in a little state my little mother dead my little father dead in a little cemetery somewhere. I have only a little time to tell you this: watch out for little death when he comes running but like all the billions of little deaths it will finally mean nothing and everything: all your little tears burning like the dove, wasted.

I was their bar freak, they needed me to make themselves feel better. just like, at times, I needed that graveyard.