Book: Shit. Page 8

The rules are the same everywhere.

Street sulphur and deserted, like many other streets in other cities of this country. The wind goes through you, leaving you a part of your cold, and eventually you're so numb that you don't even realize that you feel bad and uncomfortable. People: curious, sticking your nose where it is not necessary, prey, always ready to get pleasure from the misfortune of others.

Bohemian poet is a drunken alcoholic, trash, asshole who managed to convince rich idiots that he's an intellectual.

Work. It's addictive. It around; ever-present, enveloping, sucking the gel. When you're at work, and look at life through a distorting glass.

Just now I'm in a good place, so that the light hurts the eyes, and the gut is unhappy hum like a whore at the end of the shift.

The problem such as it is, is that they think they can spit on people like me.

What we always die alone, scary, but not worse than living alone.

Fearing that you will not see your own shadow when you stand in front of the sun, you stopped looking at him.

Start with beer in the Box, then go to ray and get into a Blizzard. Cocaine. We weakened, and the drug gives a sense of strength.