The park grass looked greener, the park benches looked better and the flowers were trying harder.

An intellectual says a simple thing in a hard way. An artist says a hard thing in a simple way.

The male, for all his bravado and exploration, is the loyal one, the one who generally feels love. The female is skilled at betrayal and torture and damnation.

Women: I liked the colors of their clothing; the way they walked; the cruelty in some faces; now and then the almost pure beauty in another face, totally and enchantingly female. They had it over us: they planned much better and were better organized. While men were watching professional football or drinking beer or bowling, they, the women, were thinking about us, concentrating, studying, deciding - whether to accept us, discard us, exchange us, kill us or whether simply to leave us. In the end it hardly mattered; no matter what they did, we ended up lonely and insane.

our bones like stems into the sky will forever cry victory

I never met another man I'd rather be. And even if that's a delusion, it's a lucky one.

Basically, that's why I wrote: to save my ass, to save my ass from the madhouse, from the streets, from myself.