What thoughts were surfacing in his mind? What poems were writing themselves? What exactly was he drinking? Where was he at? There are an unlimited amount of questions that generate when I look at this picture of Bukowski. I wonder if I can write an entry without mentioning him. What would my world be like without his existence?
Sometimes I wish I could say what I want to say without ever having to say it, but then where would that leave room for words? I will never know anything more valuable or powerful than words. They create a chance for you to explain yourself, with truth or with fabrications, and to make people understand what they may possibly never have the opportunity to observe themselves. I want to spell myself in words for the remainder of my life.
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