I Was Probably 35 When I Wrote

I'd Been Staying At The Holiday Inn With My Girlfriend, Honestly The Most Beautiful Woman I'd Ever Known, For Three Days Under A Phony Name, Shooting Heroin. We Made Love In The Bed, Ate Steaks At The Restaurant, Shot Up In The John, Puked, Cried, Accused One Another, Begged Of One Another, Forgave, Promised, And Carried One Another To Heaven.

What Could Be Lonelier Than Trying To Communicate?

The Traveling Salesmen Fed Me Pills That Made The Lining Of My Veins Feel Scraped Out, My Jaw Ached... I Knew Every Raindrop By Its Name, I Sensed Everything Before It Happened. Like I Knew A Certain Oldsmobile Would Stop Even Before It Slowed, And By The Sweet Voices Of The Family Inside, I Knew We'd Have An Accident In The Rain. I Didn't Care. They Said They'd Take Me All The Way.

I Didnt Finish The Stories Until We Went To The Philippines And I Got Malaria. I Couldnt Work And I Didnt Have Any Money, But I Had Seven Stories. So I Wrote Three Or Four More.

After The Film It Was Raining, A Light Steady Rain. Ruthless Neon On The Wet Streets Like Busted Candy.