Always this kind of empty enthusiasm when I open my eyes to this physical presence, these days filled with old songs and old words constantly growing and dying and always I’m exhilarated when I land or fall out those doors with these stranger eyes, feeling like an adventurer when I’m back, back….back, again.
Right away, and I might not want to be, but I’m smiling and waiting. I’m wondering in this dome of mine what the day will hold. I’m a night creature lost in the nine to five, and I’m sneezing at the sight of the sun, looking all bugged out man and usually I’m tired. I’m tired of the constant wading through people who seem that they wouldn’t care if we killed anybody today, that wouldn’t miss a thing if I was stabbed to death in front of their faces, and I’m suffering from this constant back pain, the writer’s pain, and who cares that the story of everything is here within these pages, and it’s killing me… softly…one time… echo…two time…
Does anybody know where a man can grab a drink and find a good knife fight around these parts? Of course not. And so anyway…
Adventures In American Writing 
I don’t know what’s going on here, but there’s something, or that’s indigestion. That’s worth something at least