I’ve been fucking around a great deal lately; some of it necessary, some of it wasted. I keep making mistakes and more mistakes and more mistakes. I’m rough on myself but I think I need a little clarity of peace. This has nothing to do with you. I have to work it out. I’m not trying for immortality or the big score; I’m just trying to soothe my insides a bit.
// Charles Bukowski, from a letter to Lawrence Andrews