Some typewriters in Whitehall, in the Pentagon, killed more civilians than our little A4 could have ever hoped to.

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.

A screaming comes across the sky.

Love with your mouth shut, help without breaking your ass or publicizing it: keep cool, but care.

Like so many named places in California it was less an identifiable city than a grouping of concepts--census tracts, special purpose bond-issue districts, shopping nuclei, all overlaid with access roads to its own freeway.

You know what a miracle is. Not what Bakunin said. But another world’s intrusion into this one. Most of the time we coexist peacefully, but when we do touch there’s cataclysm.

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