My mind is the loose cunt of a whore, to fit all genitals.
His bowels, heavy with the night’s catch groaned out new scenes.
A man giving up the idea of himself as a hero. Perhaps picking his nose in a can.
You can’t take the son of a plough manufacturer, clip off his testicles and make an artist of him.
“Did you ever see squirrels yincing?” he asked her suddenly.
Scenario hacks having removed all life from a story substituting the stink of life—a fart, a loose joke, a dirty jeer. How they do it.
Every California girl has lost at least one ovary
And none of them has read Madame Bovary.