Junkie

Kick is momentary freedom from the claims of the aging, cautious, nagging, frightened flesh.

What I look for in any relationship is contact on the nonverbal level of intuition and feeling, that is, telepathic contact.

This is police-state legislation penalizing a state of being.

“Was that all right?” asked Ike, smiling.

“If God made anything better, he kept it for Himself,” I said.

There was neither past nor future in Lola’s. The place was a waiting room.

You sometimes wake up from a dream and think, “Thank God, I didn’t really do that!” Reconstructing a period of blackout you think, “My God, did I really do it?” The line between saying and thinking is blurred. Did you say it or just think it?

Junk is an inoculation of death that keeps the body in a condition of emergency.

He didn’t much want to run a restaurant anyway. Now he isn’t even making money.

In junk sickness, any conceivable line of action or inaction seems intolerable. A man might die simply because he could not stand to stay in his body.

There was a sudden rush of blood to my genitals at the slippery contact. Sparks exploded behind my eyes; my legs twitched - the orgasm of a hanged man when the neck snaps.