Talk Into My Bullet Hole. Tell Me

I'd Been Staying At The Holiday Inn With My Girlfriend, Honestly The Most Beautiful Woman I'd Ever Known, For Three Days Under A Phony Name, Shooting Heroin. We Made Love In The Bed, Ate Steaks At The Restaurant, Shot Up In The John, Puked, Cried, Accused One Another, Begged Of One Another, Forgave, Promised, And Carried One Another To Heaven.

All His Life Robert Grainier Would Remember Vividly The Burned Valley At Sundown, The Most Dreamlike Business He’d Ever Witnessed Waking—the Brilliant Pastels Of The Last Light Overhead, Some Clouds High And White, Catching Daylight From Beyond The Valley, Others Ribbed And Gray And Pink, The Lowest Of Them Rubbing The Peaks Of Bussard And Queen Mountains; And Beneath This Wondrous Sky The Black Valley, Utterly Still, The Train Moving Through It Making A Great Noise But Unable To Wake This Dead World.

I Have The Belief In Boldness. What I Generally Lack Is The Boldness Itself. Because Boldness Doesn't Feel Bold. It Feels Scared Not Brave.

I Didnt Finish The Stories Until We Went To The Philippines And I Got Malaria. I Couldnt Work And I Didnt Have Any Money, But I Had Seven Stories. So I Wrote Three Or Four More.

Sometimes What I Wouldn't Give To Have Us Sitting In A Bar Again At 9:00 A.m. Telling Lies To One Another, Far From God.