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.

there are policemen in the street and angels in the clouds

That the young rich smell the stink of the poor and learn to find it a bit amusing. They had to laugh, otherwise it would be too terrifying.

Finally there is nothing here for death to take away.

We use such big words to move nowhere.

We have wasted History like a bunch of drunks shooting dice back in the men's crapper of the local bar.

I'm too careless. I don't put out enough effort. I'm tired.