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 anybody
or 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.
