There Are Only Two Things Wrong With

I Could Scream Down 90 Mountains To Less Than Dust If Only One Living Human Had Eyes In The Head And Heart In The Body, But There Is No Chance, My God, No Chance. Rat With Rat Dog With Dog Hog With Hog, Play The Piano Drunk Listen To The Drunk Piano, Realize The Myth Of Mercy Stand Still As Even A Child's Voice Snarls And We Have Not Been Fooled, It Was Only That We Wanted To Believe.

All That I Know Is That I Believe In The Sound Of Music And The Running Of A Horse. All Else Is Squabble.

They Have No Idea That It Can Be Done By A Bus Driver, A Field Hand, Or A Fry Cook. They Have No Idea Where It Comes From. It Comes From Pain, Damnation And Impossibility. The Blow To The Soul Of The Gut. It Comes From Getting Burned And Seared And Slugged. It Comes From...new And Awful Places And The Same Old Places.

Lawyers, Doctors, Plumbers, They All Made The Money. Writers? Writers Starved. Writers Suicided. Writers Went Mad.

Writing Is Like Going To Bed With A Beautiful Woman And Afterwards She Gets Up, Goes To Her Purse And Gives Me A Handful Of Money.