Never mistake talking about writing for actual writing.

Isn't it true that you start your life a sweet child believing in everything under your father's roof? Then comes the day of the Laodiceans, when you know you are wretched and miserable and poor and blind and naked, and with the visage of a gruesome grieving ghost you go shuddering through nightmare life.

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.

Everything is perfect on the street again, the world is permeated with roses of happiness all the time, but none of us know it. The happiness consists in realizing that it is all a great strange dream.

Your Buddhism has made you mean Ray and makes you even afraid to take your clothes off for a simple healthy orgy

Pretty girls make graves

...do you think God made the world to amuse himself because he was bored? Because if so he would have to be mean.