Finally, in March of 1991, Bukowski wrote,I have a sick and frantic need to get words running across a piece of paper.I feel luck that after all the decades of starvation and madness,that I'm now able to survive on my words,that I no longer need work for anybodyor look for a park bench for a night's sleep.Now at my age, they'll soon be calling my number.That's all right with me.There's not much around here.The longer I live, the worse it all looks.All right.All right.All I have now are my goddamn words to play with.
