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I write: Dirty-faced angels in an old postal van, scrawled their cause on the back wall, tearing down tarmac ribbons in the night all of us singing, "You are the light of my life."///Light skittering across the dashboard and ashtray from the squins on my dress as Fury drummed his knees with head bent and hair wild, threatening to stamp clean through our lunchbox on wheels.///Service station terrorists – Blondie trying out his Cockney charm on the sour-faced old bag for a free donut and shady looks shared between the Riot boys as they exited the toilets.///Howled up a storm in Wolves, bad business in Brum, never made it to Stoke and Sheffield closed its doors to such manic faces as these so home, home; in Poppa we trust.///Remembering opening the door to my putrid pie slice of normality and the parents talking about the cats and the tomatoes growing out back feelin grubby but new and no longer knowing whether I was home or had just closed the door on it.

I draw:

I listen: Down the street the dogs are barkin'/And the day is a-gettin' dark/As the night comes in a-fallin'/The dogs 'll lose their bark/An' the silent night will shatter/From the sounds inside my mind/For I'm one too many mornings/And a thousand miles behind.
From the crossroads of my doorstep/My eyes they start to fade/As I turn my head back to the room/Where my love and I have laid/An' I gaze back to the street/The sidewalk and the sign/And I'm one too many mornings/An' a thousand miles behind.
It's a restless hungry feeling/That don't mean no one no good/When ev'rything I'm a-sayin'/You can say it just as good/You're right from your side/I'm right from mine/We're both just one too many mornings/An' a thousand miles behind.

I read: "...and everything is going to the beat - It's the beat generation, it be-at, it's the beat to keep, it's the beat of the heart, it's being beat and down in the world and like oldtime lowdown and like in ancient civilizations the slave boatmen rowing galleys to a beat and servants spinning pottery to a beat..."



I have no desire to do anything. I am afraid of nothing and I want nothing. I wait like a psychopath in a game of dodge-ball: breathing quickly while the fools decide which one will throw at me next, and jumping aside for no reason except that I like being in the middle. And there is no reason for being in the middle. Why not quit altogether and like outside the circle?

I have no idea what to say, I don’t know when I’ll see you again and I don’t believe in anything beyond the next ten minutes. People keep calling me and telling me what a great friend I am. Everybody is looking for someone who can stand up in the wind. It is lonely standing up and crowded lying down. I refuse to be an anchor for other people’s dreams – but then I refuse to anchor mine to anyone else. So I have no choice but to stand up and piss into the wind. Pardon my vulgarity.

Words and photos by Hunter S. Thompson

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