If you can only remain pure in your stupidity, someday you may get a phone call from hell.

in the cupboard sits my bottle like a dwarf waiting to scratch out my prayers. I drink and cough like some idiot at a symphony, sunlight and maddened birds are everywhere, the phone rings gamboling its sound against the odds of the crooked sea; I drink deeply and evenly now, I drink to paradise and death and the lie of love.

writers are desperate people and when they stop being desperate they stop being writers.

she is no longer the beautiful woman she was. she sends photos of herself sitting upon a rock by the ocean alone and damned. I could have had her once. I wonder if she thinks I could have saved her?

There's music in everything, even defeat

young or old, good or bad, I don't think anything dies as slow and as hard as a writer.

It began as a mistake.