Dec. 7? 1990
Hello Paul:
You write a letter like a writer, maybe you ought to save your juices for the creative act? Hell, be selfish. Anyhow, sounds like your whorehouse trek filled in some holes. New York? All front and hard-ass. They like to play at humanity but that's a shield.
You're young, so nothing happening with the people is still a let=down, yeah, Let some decades pass over you and you won't be let=down, you'll know the scenario is fixed and the let=down will change to wear=down, like just putting your fucking shoes on each morning is like climbing an icey mountain. Icey? Icy. Icey shot, shit.
People have faces, hands, feet, voices etc. but it might as well not be there. Once in a while somebody rises up and lights a small flame but that somebody can't keep it going because he's sucked up by the traps--women, money, fame, parties, and worst of all, over self-belief.
Sure I laugh. When I'm alone.
o.k.,
BUK
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