I'm going to open another vottle. not a vottle, but a bottle. you open it and I'll drink it. and you try to write as much as I did without falling off of your chair.

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

If you can't write the next line, well, you're dead. The past doesn't matter.

Joan of Arc had style. Jesus had style.

Those who escape hell however never talk about it and nothing much bothers them after that

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 will remember the kisses our lips raw with love and how you gave me everything you had and how I offered you what was left of me, and I will remember your small room the feel of you the light in the window your records your books our morning coffee our noons our nights our bodies spilled together sleeping the tiny flowing currents immediate and forever your leg my leg your arm my arm your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again.