But we are alone, darling child, terribly, isolated each from the other; so fierce is the world's ridicule we cannot speak or show our tenderness; for us, death is stronger than life, it pulls like a wind through the dark, all our cries burlesqued in joyless laughter; and with the garbage of loneliness stuffed down us until our guts burst bleeding green, we go screaming round the world, dying in our rented rooms, nightmare hotels, eternal homes of the transient heart.

Lively, too. Talky as a jaybird. With something smart to say on every subject: better than the radio.

Are the dead as lonesome as the living?

That isn't writing at all, it's typing.

The good thing about masturbation is that you don't have to get dressed up for it.

Still, when all is said, somewhere one must belong: even the soaring falcon returns to its master's wrist.

Most people don't find their creativity. There are more unsung geniuses that don't even know they have great talent.