I carry death in my left pocket. Sometimes I take it out and talk to it: "Hello, baby, how you doing? When you coming for me? I'll be ready.

We are like roses that have never bothered to bloom when we should have bloomed and it is as if the sun has become disgusted with waiting

That's your response to everything: drink?" "No, that's my response to nothing.

I made practice runs down to skid row to get ready for my future.

I am a dolt of a man, easily made happy or even stupidly happy almost without cause and left alone I am mostly content.

I only want sweet peace and kindliness when I awaken -- but there's always some finger pointing, telling me some terrible deed I committed during the night. It seems I make a lot of mistakes and it seems that I am not allowed any.

It was like a church in there as only the truly lost sit in bars on Tuesday mornings at 8:00 a.m.