Suppose we suddenly wake up and see that what we thought to be this and that, ain't this and that at all?

We are nothing. - Tomorrow we may be die. We are nothing. - You and me.

Man, wow, there's so many things to do, so many things to write! How to even begin to get it all down and without modified restraints and all hung-up on like literary inhibitions and grammatical fears.

I don't wanta hear all your word descriptions of words words words you made up all winter, man I wanta be enlightened by actions.

Sometimes I’d get mad because things didn’t work out so well, I’d spoil a flapjack, or slip in the snowfield while getting water, or one time my shovel went sailing down into the gorge, and I’d be so mad I’d want to bite the mountaintops and would come in the shack and kick the cupboard and hurt my toe. But let the mind beware, though the flesh be bugged, the circumstances of existence are pretty glorious.

To think that so much comes to so little, to think that life is really short.

All our best men are laughed at in this nightmare land.