alone with everybodythe flesh covers the boneand they put a mindin there andsometimes a soul,and the women breakvases against the wallsand them men drink toomuchand nobody finds theonebut they keeplookingcrawling in and outof beds.flesh coversthe bone and theflesh searchesfor more thanflesh.there’s no chanceat all:we are all trappedby a singularfate.nobody ever findsthe one.the city dumps fillthe junkyards fillthe madhouses fillthe hospitals fillthe graveyards fillnothing elsefills.
― Charles Bukowski,
Love Is a Dog from Hell
