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

Maybe when I get in the grave, things will be beautiful.

we sat there smoking cigarettes at 5 in the morning.

I read my books at night, like that, under the quilt with the overheated reading lamp. Reading all those good lines while suffocating. It was magic.

Look, let me put it this way: with me, you’re number one and there isn’t even a number two.

i was born to hustle roses down the avenue of the dead.

I once lay in a white hospital for the dying and the dying self, where some god pissed a rain of reason to make things grow only to die, where on my knees I prayed for LIGHT, I prayed for l*i*g*h*t, and praying crawled like a blind slug into the web where threads of wind stuck against my mind and I died of pity for Man, for myself, on a cross without nails, watching in fear as the pig belches in his sty, farts, blinks and eats.