I had little talent for happiness.

What are we doing here, that is the question. And we are blessed in this, that we happen to know the answer. Yes, in the immense confusion one thing alone is clear. We are waiting for Godot to come

Nothing is funnier than unhappiness.

The essential is to go on squirming forever at the end of the line, as long as there are waters and banks and ravening in heaven asporting God to plague his creature, per pro his chosen shits.

To think, when one is no longer young, when one is not yet old, that one is no longer young, that one is not yet old, that is perhaps something.

I say me, knowing all the while it's not me.

Over, over, there is a soft place in my heart for all that is over, no, for the being over, words have been my only loves, not many.