There was nothing glorious about the life of a drinker or the life of a writer.

I was an Agnostic. Agnostics didn't have much to argue about.

eleven months. now she's gone gone as they go.

When a writer is swayed with his fame and his fortune, you can float him down the river with the turds.

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.

my 6 foot goddess makes me laugh the laughter of the mutilated who still need love... she has saved me from everything that is not here

Now something so sad has hold of us that the breath leaves and we can't even cry.