NITCH

Charles Bukowski // "Van Gogh writing his brother for paints, Hemingway testing his shotgun...Faulkner drunk in the gutters of his town. The impossibility of being human. Burroughs killing his wife with a gun, Mailer stabbing his. The impossibility of being human. Maupassant going mad in a rowboat, Dostoevsky lined up against a wall to be shot...Sylvia with her head in the oven like a baked potato...Lorca murdered in the road by the Spanish troops...The impossibility, the impossibility. Nietzsche gone totally mad. The impossibility of being human, all too human. This breathing, in and out, out and in. These punks, these cowards, these champions, these mad dogs of glory, moving this little bit of light toward us, impossibly."

Charles Bukowski // "Van Gogh writing his brother for paints, Hemingway testing his shotgun...Faulkner drunk in the gutters of his town. The impossibility of being human. Burroughs killing his wife with a gun, Mailer stabbing his. The impossibility of being human. Maupassant going mad in a rowboat, Dostoevsky lined up against a wall to be shot...Sylvia with her head in the oven like a baked potato...Lorca murdered in the road by the Spanish troops...The impossibility, the impossibility. Nietzsche gone totally mad. The impossibility of being human, all too human. This breathing, in and out, out and in. These punks, these cowards, these champions, these mad dogs of glory, moving this little bit of light toward us, impossibly."