The air was soft, the stars so fine, the promise of every cobbled alley so great, that I thought I was in a dream.

In my medicine cabinet, the winter fly has died of old age.

Parade my trouble in front of you guys? Make you realize that my heart is broken . . . that as long as I live I'll have chains dragging me down to the oceans of sad tears that my feet are wet in already.

Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition.

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.

What's in store for me in the direction I don't take?

I realized these were all the snapshots which our children would look at someday with wonder, thinking their parents had lived smooth, well-ordered lives and got up in the morning to walk proudly on the sidewalks of life, never dreaming the raggedy madness and riot of our actual lives, our actual night, the hell of it, the senseless emptiness.