Basically, that's why I wrote: to save my ass, to save my ass from the madhouse, from the streets, from myself.

Love came hard and very seldom. When it did it was usually for the wrong reasons.

yes, Wagner and the storm intermix with the wine as nights like this run up my wrists and up into my head and back down into the gut

if you think they didn't go crazy in tiny rooms just like you're doing now without women without food without hope then you're not ready.

I would certainly end up forever crying the blues into a coffee cup in a park for old men playing chess or silly games of some sort.

My body gnaws at me from one side and my spirit gnaws at me from the other.

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