the best way to think is not at all- my banjo screams in the brush like a trapped rabbit (do rabbits scream? never mind: this is an alcoholic dream); machine guns, I say, the altarboys, the wet nurses, the fat newsboys, rubber-lipped delegates of the precious life; my banjo screams sing sing through the darkened dream, green grow green, take gut: death, at last, is no headache.
Charles Bukowski, The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over The Hills, Ecco/HarperCollins, 1969
