No time for poetry but exactly what is.

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

Yeah," I said, "but you're an artist. You don't believe in decency and honesty and gratitude. Where shall we eat?

I mean, why on earth (outside sickness and hangovers) aren't people continually drunk? I want ecstasy of the mind all the time.

It's all too much and not enough at the same time.

At night in this part of the West the stars, as I had seen them in Wyoming, were as big as Roman Candles and as lonely as the Prince who's lost his ancestral home and journeys across the spaces trying to find it again, and knows he never will.

The beauty of things must be that they end.