Writing Is Like Going To Bed With

I Was Beaten Down Long Ago In Some Alley In Another World.

That Moment - To This ... May Be Years In The Way They Measure, But It's Only One Sentence Back In My Mind - There Are So Many Days When Living Stops And Pulls Up And Sits And Waits Like A Train On The Rails. I Pass The Hotel At 8 And At 5; There Are Cats In The Alleys And Bottles And Bums, And I Look Up At The Window And Think, I No Longer Know Where You Are, And I Walk On And Wonder Where The Living Goes When It Stops.

The Masses Are Everywhere They Know How To Do Things: They Have Sane And Deadly Angers For Sane And Deadly Things.

Beware Of Those Who Seek Constant Crowds; They Are Nothing Alone.

There Are So Many Days When Living Stops And Pulls Up And Sits And Waits Like A Train On The Rails.