There ought to be a place to go when you can’t sleep or you’re tired of getting drunk and the grass doesn’t work anymore, and I don’t mean to go to hash or cocaine, I mean a place to go to besides the death that’s waiting or to a love that doesn’t work anymore.
There ought to be a place to go when you can’t sleep besides to a TV set or to a movie or to buy a newspaper or to read a novel.
It’s not having a place to go
that creates the people now in madhouses
and the suicides.
I supposed what most people do when there isn’t any place to go is to go to some place or to something that hardly satisfies them, and this ritual tends to sandpaper them down to where they can somehow continue even without hope.
Those faces you see every day on the streets were not created entirely without hope: be kind to them: like you they have not escaped.