Something That Never Happens Anywhere

We Drove On And On, Past Little Villages And Both Good Things And Bad Things Were Happening To The People In Those Villages Too, But I Still Was Nothing But Arms And Ears And Eyes And Maybe There'd Be Either Some Good Luck For Me Or More Death Tomorrow.

Too Often, The Only Escape Is Sleep

I Could Read The Great Books But The Great Books Don't Interest Me.

I Have Gotten So Used To Melancholia That I Greet It Like An Old Friend.

My Body Gnaws At Me From One Side And My Spirit Gnaws At Me From The Other.