and I was out of New York, almost alive.

[...] you say you feel this madness. what do you do when it comes upon you?

I write poetry.

is poetry madness?

non-poetry is ugliness.

what is ugly?

to each man, someting different.

does ugliness belong?

it's there.

does it belong?

I don't know, sir.

you pretend knowledge. what is knowledge?

knowing as little as possible.

how can that be?

I don't know, sir.

can you build a bridge?

no, sir.

can you make a gun?

no, sir.

these things are the products of knowledge.

these things are bridges and guns.

"I'll always remember that hotel in Paris. we were all there. kaja, Nal Horse, Burroughs... the greatest literary minds of our generation." "do you think it helped your writing, Mr. L?" I asked. it was a stupid question. he looked at me sternly, then allowed me to watch him smile, "everything helps my writing."

[...] I realize I switch from present to past tense, and if you don't like it... ram a nipple up your scrotum. - printer: leave this in.)