There's a small balcony here, the door is open and I can see the lights of the cars on the Harbor Freeway south, they never stop, that roll of lights, on and on. All those people. What are they doing? What are they thinking? We're all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn't.

Goodness can be found sometimes in the middle of hell.

i dunno," i said, "but i have an idea that people who don't think too much tend to look younger longer

If I stop writing I am dead. And that's the only way I'll stop: dead.

In a more universal sense, we only get one thing. You know...a head stone if we're lucky; if not, green grass.

If you let them kill you, they will

Things will be far worse than they are now. And far better. I wait.