I got up and walked back to my roominghouse. The moonlight was bright. My footsteps echoed in the empty street and it sounded as if somebody was following me, I looked around. I was mistaken. I was quite alone.

I was so thin I could slice bread with my shoulderblades, only I seldom had bread.

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.

Pretty words, as pretty women, wrinkle up and die.

If I have any advice to anybody it's this: take up watercolor painting.

Let' em learn or let' em die

Goodness can be found sometimes in the middle of hell.