Down these these mean streets walks a man without a flashlight.

I walked away from my Remy Macintosh-designed Bic Bontarge two and a half door coupe with the croup...

Somewhere a dream sighed.

I'd know broken hearts, but this was ridiculous.

She stared into my eyes like she wanted to know the serial number of my first teddy bear.

I rejected her with a cab ride home.

Her cab, my home.

She hated me for years, from my own bed.

I joined the French Foreign Legion to learn German and to get some sun.

Anybody's but my own.

I tried writing heikus on the latrine wall,

but some Munchkin from Munchen kept correcting my Basque grammar.

But a thirty-eight will do more good than a five dollar bill in the night when William Burroughs asks to borrow your typewriter and he has a woman with him that you don't like the looks of.

You don't think you'll ever look at that typewriter the same again.