where some god pissed a rain of reason to make things grow only to die,

I see a brightportionunder the overhead lightthat shades intodarknessand then into darkerdarknessand I can't see beyond that.

being alone you decided, was a magnificent miracle.nothing else made anysense at all.—escape

How are his poems?""He's not as good as he thinks he is, but then most of us feel that way.

people need me. I fillthem. if they can't see mefor awhile the get desperate, they getsick.but if I see them too oftenI get sick. it's hard to feedwithout getting fed.

Basically, that's why I wrote: to save my ass, to save my ass from the madhouse, from the streets, from myself.

There is only one place to write and that is alone at a typewriter. The writer who has to go into the streets is a writer who does not know the streets. . . when you leave your typewriter you leave your machine gun and the rats come pouring through.

I believe that to be the world's greatest livingwriterthere must be somethingterribly wrong with you.I don't even want to be the world's greatestdead writer.just being dead would be fairenough.

the gods play nofavorites.