Too weird to live, and too rare to die.

I am not a yachting person, by nature, but I have just enough experience on the sea under sail to feel a certain nostalgia for it when I see a big white racing yacht heeled over at cruising speed on the ocean, and I can still tie a mean bowline knot on just about anything in less than 10 seconds.

We must ride this strange torpedo out until the end.

It was wonderful, a stunning happy ending to what began as another tragic rock & roll story, as if Bob Dylan had been arrested in Miami for jacking off in a seedy little XXX theater while stroking the spine of a fat young boy.

Some may never live, but the crazy never die.

It's in my interest, in ours perhaps, or maybe the interests of the greater good, for me to smoke a joint, and calm down.

Fiction is based on reality unless you're a fairytale artist.