I'll never wake up in a good mood again. I'm tired of these stinky boots

Let's just say I was testing the bounds of reality...

The gate is straight, Deep and wide, Break on through to the other side...

Lying on stained, wretched sheets with a bleeding virgin We could plan a murder Or start a religion.

Rather than starting inside, I start outside and reach the mental through the physical.

Getting drunk . . . you're in complete control up to a point. It's your choice, every time you take a sip. You have a lot of small choices. It's like . . . I guess it's the difference between suicide and slow capitulation . . .

I believe in a long, prolonged, derangement of the senses in order to obtain the unknown.