Death and Taxes are inevitable.  So are mornings, lunches, encroaching humidity and the Vatican.  Death can come in infinitesimal increments, can creep along slowly in dragged out stages.  Every pathetic, meaningless interaction, every fucking painful charade takes you one step further towards total isolation.  As the soldier ants swarm the caterpillar taking refuge in the ditch, as the sun beats down on Newfoundlands and Saint Bernards, as surely as the water eats away at the shoreline year after year and rots the guts of the futile wooden buildings we insist on constructing, we get more and more tired, more and more sick of existence, more and more resigned to the inevitable.  I am not depressed; I am an indifferent observer.

 There are critters in these parts that you wouldn't believe.  There are snakes in the grass, clouds of bees passing by, giant spiders of every possible shape, color and description like something out of someone's worst nightmare.  Who the fuck assigned hair to insects?  You mean to tell me they get cold?

 My lungs are gooey and gelatinous.  Someone is coming by with a pail of phlegm every night while I am asleep and pouring it down my throat.  I am one continuous hacking, wheezing strangle.  I am a dying witness of an A-bomb, I am Napalm Child, I am Aqualung cross-bred with Mr. Toad.

 There's a scene in Casino where everything cuts out, and all of a sudden some pissed off jazz dude screams, 'God damn it!!!"  Then they go on playing their funky tune.  I laughed my ass off yesterday watching it.  I wish I'd written that.

 Went to a bar last night, preening cunts everywhere.  It's a serious effort to sit through that shit nowadays.  I did it for Bill, what an altruist I am.  Flirted with my BAC again on the way home.

 Doris is getting married in a few weeks.  My gift is to be sold.  I should go to the wedding and piss on everyone from the balcony.  Ha Ha Ha.
 (Aqualung takes a sip of Coors).

 Self-consciousness killed the cat.  The only people who have ever accomplished anything are those who are crazy enough to not be paying any attention to what they're doing while they do it.  Lobotomists are on the right track.

 Can't get into jazz.  Don't know why, feel like I should like it.  I'm still in tune with Ozzy and the screaming freaks.  Want to cut off my arm to make some sort of statement.

 Kris is driving me mad, giving me hope and like Red say, hope be a very dangerous thang.  It can drive a man insane.  She's a youngun, she is to be watched carefully.  She will change her mind with the flush of a toilet, and wash my stupid head right down with it in a matter of nanoseconds.
 TRYIN TO MAKE IT REAL COMPARED TO WHAT