I was halfway across America, at the dividing line between the East of my youth and the West of my future.

What is he aching to do? What are we all aching to do? What do we want?” She didn’t know. She yawned. She was sleepy. It was too much. Nobody could tell. Nobody would ever tell. It was all over. She was eighteen and most lovely, and lost.

I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till i drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.

I took a straight picture that made me look like a thirty-year-old Italian who'd kill anybody who said something against his mother.

It always makes me proud to love the world somehow- hate's so easy compared.

Goddamn it, FEELING is what I like in art, not CRAFTINESS and the hiding of feelings.

Keep it kickwriting at all costs too, that is, write only what kicks you and keeps you overtime awake from sheer mad joy.