Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy
Last night I walked clear down to Times Square & just as I arrived I suddenly realized I was a ghost - it was my ghost walking on the sidewalk.
I have all the time in the world from life to life to do what is to do, to do what is done, to do the timeless doing.
Everything I wrote was true because I believed what I saw.
"What do you want out of life?" I asked, and I used to ask that all the time of girls.
I was amazed by the fact that I was not the only writer living, not the only young man "with a locomotive in his chest, and that's a fact," not the only youth with a million hungers and not one of them appeasable, not the only one who is lonely among multitudes, and does not know why.