Writing at least is a silent meditation even though you’re going a hundred miles an hour.

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

Everything I wrote was true because I believed what I saw.

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

You seek identity in the midst of indistinguishab le chaos, in sprawling nameless reality.

The details are the life of it, I insist, say everything on your mind, don’t hold back, don’t analyze or anything as you go along, say it out.

Soon it got dusk, a grapy dusk, a purple dusk over tangerine groves and long melon fields; the sun the color of pressed grapes, slashed with burgandy red, the fields the color of love and Spanish mysteries.