Memory was supposed to fill the time, but it made time a hole to be filled. Each second was two hundred yards, to be walked, crawled. You couldn't see the next hour, it was so far in the distance. Tomorrow was over the horizon, and would take an entire day to reach.

But I dig Negroes. I dig them all the way.

It was getting hard to keep all the things I didn't know inside me.

I said, 'I need to know how he died.' He flipped back and pointed at, 'Why?' So I can stop inventing how he died. I'm always inventing.

If it had and answer, it wouldn't really be love, would it?

Weeks passed like boats waiting to sail into the starless dawn, we were full of aimless endless darkness.

All really great artists, Jackson Pollack, John Cage, Beckett or Joyce - you are never indifferent to them.