I’m living the life of an urban hunter-gatherer—again.

Here comes the train; there goes the pain!

Your lifelong rebellion against all forms of authority stems from the infant’s desire to murder the father and possess the mother.

They needed someone to hate, a tangible focus for their remorse and disappointment, and I’d been elected, the projection of their own inner hell.

I was born under that star, the dung-beetle star.

Like the dung beetle, I had my comfortable burrow and my ball of sustenance, and like the dung beetle I was happy.

Meditation doesn’t lead to enlightenment because in meditation the ego is trying to destroy the ego.

I’m nothing more than a talking urinal cake. The world is pissing on me.

I’m back at Lafayette Park after a trip to the Bodhi Tree Bookstore, not to look at the books but to rub up against the female bookworms and to catch a buzz on the free herbal tea.