So many people think that practicing an art is a good way to make a living. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake. I'm talking about singing in the shower, I'm talking about dancing to the radio, I'm talking about writing a poem to a friend.

The bounties of space, of infinite outwardness, were three: empty heroics, low comedy, and pointless death.

I keep losing and regaining my equilibrium, which is the basic plot of all popular fiction. And I myself am a work of fiction.

I was some of the mud that got to sit up and look around. Lucky me, lucky mud.

Our government's got a war on drugs. That's certainly better than no drugs at all.

All this happened, more or less.

I was a victim of a series of accidents, as are we all.