dear editor:

jesus christ, it’s no good, I’ve sat around here for a couple of
days getting caught up on trivialities, have stayed away from the
racetrack and now I’m like a dead man inside and I can’t
W R I T E !
I can see now that I feed upon confusion, and the sight of the
human race–if I don’t see them I   don’t know who I am or what I am
not, they
tighten my agony, loosen my laughter–
the pleasure in   getting away from them: that, alone, is a lesson in
but if I stay away there’s little consolation in my victory
because I begin to forget what I’ve
escaped… so,
tomorrow I’ll be out there again wasting the hours, placing my
bets, bathing in the useless futility, being them and of them;
too many years in the factories, too many desolate shack
jobs, too much life in the muck
have made me incapable of doing

there, my critics are right!   and bless them for it, those pale
and trembling

Charles Bukowski
Original manuscript