As far as I'm concerned the only thing to do is sit in a room and get drunk

But why think about that when all the golden lands ahead of you and all kinds of unforseen events wait lurking to surprise you and make you glad you're alive to see?

You seek identity in the midst of indistinguishab le chaos, in sprawling nameless reality.

and nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old

Everything I wrote was true because I believed what I saw.

Don't use the phone. People are never ready to answer it. Use poetry.

And what does the rain say at night in a small town, what does the rain have to say? Who walks beneath dripping melancholy branches listening to the rain? Who is there in the rain’s million-needled blurring splash, listening to the grave music of the rain at night, September rain, September rain, so dark and soft? Who is there listening to steady level roaring rain all around, brooding and listening and waiting, in the rain-washed, rain-twinkled dark of night?