I shot a vein in my neck and coughed up a quaalude.
Perfect Night is minimalistic and that's what makes it so forceful.
How could you even dream or think something of someone who is as uncommercial as I am?
I'd harbored hopes that the intelligence that once inhabited novels or films would ingest rock. I was, perhaps, wrong.
These are really terribly rough times, and we really should try to be as nice to each other as possible.
I've made love to my mother, killed my father, and my brother. What am I to do?