Happy. Just in my swim shorts, barefooted, wild-haired, in the red fire dark, singing, swigging wine, spitting, jumping, running—that's the way to live. All alone and free in the soft sands of the beach by the sigh of the sea out there, with the Ma-Wink fallopian virgin warm stars reflecting on the outer channel fluid belly waters. And if your cans are redhot and you can't hold them in your hands, just use good old railroad gloves, that's all.

As I grew older I became a drunk. Why? Because I like ecstasy of the mind.

And as far as I can see the world is too old for us to talk about it with our new words.

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

She talks with a broken heart - Her voice lutes brokenly like a heart lost, musically too, like in a lost grove, it's almost too much to bear sometimes like some fantastic futuristic Jerry Southern singer in a nightclub who steps up to the mike in the spotlight in Las Vegas but doesn't even have to sing, just talk, to make men sigh and women wonder I guess.

The human bones are but vain lines dawdling, the whole universe a blank mold of stars.

Whither goest thou, America, in thy shiny car in the night?