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It was like a walking frame or a wheelchair, a crutch, which when you think about it is what most writing is, something to support the figure of the writer, so that he doesn’t fall back into the primordial soup of everyone else, which is no one.

I began to think of people not as individuals but as destinations, as map points across this inhospitable desert, like an oasis of flesh, a port of spit and smell, and sometimes I would breathe it in, you know, with my legs spread in the back seat of a car or in a nightclub or in some bushes next t…

[...] There was a pair of thick floor-length brown velvet curtains (that were pulled shut) and some candles burning (and some lamps) and on the couch there was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, done up with dark hair and red lips and oversized glasses (her hair like a dark silent river, a r…

[...] What the hell (I was in Paris). Afterwards I walked along the Seine in the early evening where groups of friends and lovers were drinking wine and picnicking on coats spread out on the grass (as the sun was going down). I sat on the grass (a couple with bare feet were sleeping on a blanket ri…