slouch life

I remember walking across Sixty-second Street one twilight that first spring, or the second spring, they were all alike for a while. I was late to meet someone but I stopped at Lexington Avenue and bought a peach and stood on the corner eating it and knew that I had come out of the West and reached the mirage. I could taste the peach and feel the soft air blowing from a subway grating on my legs and I could smell lilac and garbage and expensive perfume and I knew that it would cost something sooner or later—because I did not belong there, did not come from there—but when you are twenty-two or twenty-three, you figure that later you will have a high emotional balance, and be able to pay whatever it costs. I still believed in possibilities then, still had the sense, so peculiar to New York, that something extraordinary would happen any minute, any day, any month.
—  Joan Didion, Slouching Towards Bethlehem
going, going, secret place you residing, going, I went into myself to kill myself, to cut the cord twining me to a sliver of moon and an elliptical yes, daily, every day cutting and hoping today is the day of forgetting, today I commit amnesia and damn myself to the bit of god left in me, then I can smile like an executive and I can sell my personality for a sleek gig, and I can drink liquor and slide into the pavement and slouch the impulses saying life is once and live it reckoning nothing but the communion of yourself to the sun and moon in you.
—  Stimie