The bees in my stomach are dead and getting used to it.

We looked like a parade barely moving toward YOU MIGHT GET LOST.

The 1960s: A lot of people remember hating President Lyndon Baines Johnson and loving Janis Joplin and Jim Morrison, depending on the point of view. God rest their souls.

If you get hung up on everybody else's hang-ups, then the whole world's going to be nothing more than one huge gallows.

The sun was like a huge 50-cent piece that someone had poured kerosene on and then had lit with a match, and said, "Here, hold this while I go get a newspaper," and put the coin in my hand, but never came back.

Finding is losing something else. I think about, perhaps even mourn, what I lost to find this

I do not care to be esthetically tickled in a fancy theater surrounded by an audience drenched in the confident perfume of culture. I can't afford it.