Dennis Cooper, God help him, is a born writer.
The Planet drifts to random insect doom.
Time: a landing field! Death needs time like a junkie needs junk.
I started to write in about 1950; I was thirty-five at the time; there didn't seem to be any strong motivation. I simply was endeavoring to put down in a more or less straightforward journalistic style something about my experiences with addiction and addicts.
I think anybody incapable of changing his mind is crazy.
I'm creating an imaginary โ it's always imaginary โ world in which I would like to live.