"But they’ve left us a bit of music and a spiked show in the corner, a jigger of scotch, a blue necktie, a small volume of poems by Rimbaud, a horse running as if the devil were twisting his tail over bluegrass and screaming, and then, love again, like a streetcar turning the corner on time, the city waiting, the wine and the flowers, the water walking across the lake the summer and winter and summer and summer and winter again."

Charles Bukowski