The cowboy music twanged in the roadhouse and carried across the fields, all sadness. It was all right with me. I kissed my baby and we put out the lights.

The whole mad swirl of everything that was to come began then.

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

I mean, why on earth (outside sickness and hangovers) aren't people continually drunk? I want ecstasy of the mind all the time.

Who can leap the world's ties and sit with me among white clouds?

Maybe that's what life is... a wink of the eye and winking stars.

Are we fallen angels who didn't want to believe that nothing is nothing and so were born to lose our loved ones and dear friends one by one and finally our own life, to see it proved?