Down in Denver, all I did was die.
They build their own Hells.
But, outside of being a sweet little girl, she was awfully dumb and capable of doing horrible things.
All he needed was a wheel in his hand and four on the road.
Will you love me in December as you do in May?
We turned at a dozen paces, for love is a duel, and looked at each other for the last time.
They have worries, they’re counting the miles, they’re thinking about where to sleep tonight, how much money for gas, the weather, how they’ll get there – and all the time they’ll get there anyway, you see.
His friends said, “Why do you have that ugly thing hanging there?” and Bull said, “I like it because it’s ugly.” All his life was in that line.
Don’t touch me, I’m full of snakes.
LA is the loneliest and most brutal of American cities; NY gets god-awful cold in the winter but there’s a feeling of wacky comradeship somewhere in some streets. LA is a jungle.
Go moan for man. It’s the pathos of people that gets us down, all the lovers in this dream.
And the story of love is a long sad tale ending in graves.
Rocks are space, and space is illusion.
The cowboy music twanged in the roadhouse and carried across the fields, all sadness. It was all right with me. I kissed my baby and we put out the lights.
Believe that the world is an ethereal flower, and ye live.
What a horror it would have been if the world was real, because if the world was real, it would be immortal.
It made me think that everything was about to arrive – the moment when you know all and everything is decided forever.
This was a manuscript of the night we couldn’t read.
How clear the realization one is going mad – the mind has a silence, nothing happens in the physique, urine gathers in your loins, your ribs contract.
It’s good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.