Between incomprehensible and incoherent sits the madhouse. I am not in the madhouse.

I didn't know what to say. I felt like crying, Goddammit everybody in the world wants an explanation for your acts and for your very being.

Writing at least is a silent meditation even though you’re going a hundred miles an hour.

Swinging on delicate hinges the autumn leaf almost off the stem.

Sure baby, mañana. It was always mañana. For the next few weeks that was all I heard––mañana a lovely word and one that probably means heaven.

and the stars were icicles of mockery

Oftentimes an originator of new language forms is called 'pretentious' by jealous talents. But it ain’t whatcha write, it’s the way atcha write it.