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.
Bein Crazy is the least of my worries.
Who can leap the world’s ties and sit with me among white clouds?
It was all completely serious, all completely hallucinated, all completely happy.
I’d rather hop freights around the country and cook my food out of tin cans over wood fires, than be rich and have a home or work.
And I will die, and you will die, and we all will die, and even the stars will fade out one after another in time.
And he had a nice home in Ohio with wife, daughter, Christmas tree, two cars, garage, lawn, lawnmower, but he couldn’t enjoy any of it because he really wasn’t free. It was sadly true.
The more ups and downs, the more joy I feel. The greater the fear, the greater the happiness I feel.
Is Virgin you trying to fathom me.