They, all of them, seemed to put literary form in front of the actuality and living of life itself.

Angels, we have grown apart.

alone with everybody the flesh covers the bone and they put a mind in there and sometimes a soul, and the women break vases against the walls and them men drink too much and nobody finds the one but they keep looking crawling in and out of beds. flesh covers the bone and the flesh searches for more than flesh. there's no chance at all: we are all trapped by a singular fate. nobody ever finds the one. the city dumps fill the junkyards fill the madhouses fill the hospitals fill the graveyards fill nothing else fills.

why don't we go back out there and tell them what happened? because nothing happened except that everybody has been driven insane and stupid by life. in this society there are only two things that count: don't be caught without money and don't get caught high on any kind of high. (Night Streets of Madness)

It will rain all this night and we will sleep transfixed by the dark water as our blood runs through our fragile life.

It was better for me when I could imagine greatness in others, even if it wasn't always there.

To create art means to be crazy alone forever.