I project myself out through the glasses and across the street, a ghost in the morning sunlight, torn with disembodied lust.

Whether you sniff it smoke it eat it or shove it up your ass the result is the same: addiction.

There is in fact something obscene and sinister about photography, a desire to imprison, to incorporate, a sexual intensity of pursuit.

There is no intensity of love or feeling that does not involve the risk of crippling hurt. It is a duty to take this risk, to love and feel without defense or reserve.

NOTHING happens by coincidence.

I like the idea of generalizing the narcotic thing by making it black meat addiction.

A junky runs on junk time. When the junk is cut off, the clock runs down and stops. All he can do is hang on and wait for non-junky time to start. A sick junky has no escape from external time, no place to go. He can only wait.