They were beautiful nothings

I never pump up my vulgarity. I wait for it to arrive in its own terms.

Each man's hell is in a different place: mine is just up and behind my ruined face.

there is moss on the walls and the stain of thought and failure and waiting

bad writing's like bad women: there's just not much you can do about it

so it's always a process of letting go, one way or another

there's no defense except all the errors made