being alone never felt right. sometimes it felt good, but it never felt right.

The problem was you had to keep choosing between one evil or another, and no matter what you chose, they sliced a little more off you, until there was nothing left. At the age of 25 most people were finished. A whole goddamned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything in the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidate who reminded them most of themselves.

Those faces you see every day on the streets were not created entirely without hope: be kind to them: like you they have not escaped.

I drive around the streets an inch away from weeping, ashamed of my sentimentality and possible love.

I have gotten so used to melancholia that I greet it like an old friend.

the impossibility of being human all too human this breathing in and out out and in these punks these cowards these champions these mad dogs of glory moving this little bit of light toward us impossibly.

it is good to be sitting some place in public at 2:30 in the afternoon without getting the flesh ripped from your bones.