It was only the matter of a new voice. Nobody listened to an old voice anymore. Old voices became a part of one's self, like a fingernail.

Lawyers, doctors, plumbers, they all made the money. Writers? Writers starved. Writers suicided. Writers went mad.

eleven months. now she's gone gone as they go.

When a writer is swayed with his fame and his fortune, you can float him down the river with the turds.

I didn't feel that way about it. I had been playing with death for some time. I can't say we were the best of friends but we were well acquainted.

The years have gone by quickly. Death sits in the seat next to me. We make a lovely couple.

Animals never worry about Heaven or Hell. Neither do I. Maybe that's why we get along.