You go from dream to dream inside me. You have passage to my last shabby corner, and there, among the debris, you’ve found life. I’m no longer sure which of all the words, images, dreams or ghosts are ‘yours’ and which are ‘mine.’ It’s past sorting out.

Oh, this beer here is cold, cold and hop-bitter, no point coming up for air, gulp, till it's all--hahhhh.

This spiritualist, this statistician, what are you anyway?

Life's single lesson: that there is more accident to it than a man can ever admit to in a lifetime and stay sane.

My mother is the war,' declares Roger Mexico, leaning over to open the door.

Perhaps its familiarity rendered it temporarily invisible to you.

So generation after generation of men in love with pain and passivity serve out their time in the Zone, silent, redolent of faded sperm, terrified of dying, desperately addicted to the comforts others sell them, however useless, ugly or shallow, willing to have life defined for them by men whose only talent is for death.