It all ends in tears anyway.

Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition.

Mind is the Maker, for no reason at all, for all this creation, created to fall.

Never dreaming, was I, poor Jack Duluoz, that the soul is dead. That from Heaven grace descends . . . No Doctor Pisspot Poorpail to tell me; no example inside my first and only skin. That love is the heritage, and cousin to death. That the only love can only be the first love, the only death the last, the only life within, and the only word . . . choked forever.

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

Maybe that's what life is... a wink of the eye and winking stars.

The only alternative to sleeping out, hopping freights, and doing what I wanted, I saw in a vision would be to just sit with a hundred other patients in front of a nice television set in a madhouse, where we could be "supervised."