Writers, like elephants, have long, vicious memories. There are things I wish I could forget.

Quien sabe? Not me. The older I get the less I sabe, the less wisdom, maturity and caution I have.

Kick is seeing things from a special angle. Kick is momentary freedom from the claims of the aging, cautious, nagging, fightened flesh.

The self is like a pimping blackmailing chauffeur who gets you from here to there on word lines.

The dark Gods of pain are surfacing from the immemorial filth of time.

Humility is indeed beatness, a compulsory virtue that no one exhibits unless he has to.

NOTHING happens by coincidence.