What is he aching to do? What are we all aching to do? What do we want?” She didn’t know. She yawned. She was sleepy. It was too much. Nobody could tell. Nobody would ever tell. It was all over. She was eighteen and most lovely, and lost.

We were all delighted, we all realized we were leaving confusion and nonsense behind and performing our one and noble function of the time, move.

The air was soft, the stars so fine, the promise of every cobbled alley so great, that I thought I was in a dream.

The bartenders are the regular band of Jack, and the heavenly drummer who looks up to the sky with blue eyes, with a beard, is wailing beer-caps of bottles and jamming on the cash register and everything is going to the beat - It's the beat generation, its béat, it's the beat to keep, it's the beat of the heart, it's being beat and down in the world and like oldtime lowdown.

Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind.

The beauty of things must be that they end.

ah, you always go for the ones who don't really want you