A day of minor profit or prophet led to a night of drunkenness.

Finally there is nothing here for death to take away.

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

but right now it's Bob Dylan Bob Dylan Bob Dylan all the way.

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.

the best often die by their own hand just to get away, and those left behind can never quite understand why anybody would ever want to get away from them

a good book can make an almost impossible existence, liveable ( from 'the luck of the word' )