That's the story of my life rich or poor and mostly poor and truly poor.

Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road.

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

LA is the loneliest and most brutal of American cities; NY gets god-awful cold in the winter but there's a feeling of wacky comradeship somewhere in some streets. LA is a jungle.

Roaring dreams take place in a perfectly silent mind. Now that we know this, throw the raft away.

Who doesn't feel studious when he doesn't have a girl with a Riviera suntan?

Don't think of words when you stop but to see picture better.