We must find out what words are and how they function. They become images when written down, but images of words repeated in the mind and not of the image of the thing itself.

Kerouac opened a million coffee bars and sold a million pairs of Levis to both sexes. Woodstock rises from his pages.

Madness is confusion of levels of fact. . . . Madness is not seeing visions but confusing levels.

Perhaps all pleasure is only relief.

Every word is autobiographical, and every word is fiction.

Smash the control images. Smash the control machine.

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