"I believe I could feel a good deal of cold, reptilian affection for you. And what if I could? This is not love."
Everyone's asleep, with mind-numbing deceit. To hell with them. The thought rattled clinkingly in his brain -- a cold, infantile joy. Such thoughts came to him only after standing suddenly from long sitting and seeing that all was dark, that only he was still awake, still thinking his restless thoughts here in the cold dark abandoned by the others for the cold comfort of their solitary beds. Night was a time to be free, to roam a restless universe, not to succumb to a self-induced exhaustion, that nightly self-imprisonment that nightly webbed him in lovely exile. At night, everything makes noise. The scratching of a pen on paper brings disbelief that anyone could sleep through it. Only in America.
Here in solitary, the abandoned comfort of cold, dark beds.
When you get into heaven
can you be an automatic writer
Those religious people must be smoking the same stuff I am. Why?
Because it's only times we see the same things.