“Consummation Of GriefI even hear the mountainsthe way they laughup and down their blue sidesand down in the waterthe fish cryand the water is their tears.I listen to the wateron nights I drink awayand the sadness becomes so greatI hear it in my clockit becomes knobs upon my dresserit becomes paper on the floorit becomes a shoehorna laundry ticketit becomescigarette smokeclimbing a chapel of dark vines. . .it matters littlevery little love is not so bador very little lifewhat countsis waiting on wallsI was born for thisI was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.”
Charles Bukowski
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