Can you remember who you were, before the world told you who you should be?
the best part was pulling down the shades stuffing the doorbell with rags putting the phone in the refrigerator and going to bed for 3 or 4 days. and the next best part was nobody ever missed me.
there are so many days when living stops and pulls up and sits and waits like a train on the rails.
I do think that poetry is important though, if you don’t strive at it, if you don’t fill it full of stars and falseness.
during my worst times on the park benches in the jails or living with whores I always had this certain contentment- I wouldn't call it happiness- it was more of an inner balance that settled for whatever was occuring and it helped in the factories and when relationships went wrong with the girls. it helped through the wars and the hangovers the backalley fights the hospitals. to awaken in a cheap room in a strange city and pull up the shade- this was the craziest kind of contentment and to walk across the floor to an old dresser with a cracked mirror- see myself, ugly, grinning at it all. what matters most is how well you walk through the fire.
If I bet on humanity, I'd never cash a ticket.
Mëso të mos e shkatërrosh me fjalë atë çfarë ke ndërtuar me heshtje.
Sometimes things are just what they seem to be and that's all there is to it.
