Pygmania

Here are excerpts that I related to...out of just ONE column.  At 4:00 AM in SoHo I would stop and look at the blank-faced mannequins in the windows of the shuttered stores on Broadway and feel something like my soul if I believed in souls slipping out of the top of my head like steam from a kettle and rising like street exhaust into the blinky-black sky.  Adios,  ghost. Then I'd walk home, listening to the Rolling Stones:  YOU'RE A STAR FUCKER STAR FUCKER STAR FUCKER STAR FUCKER STAR YES YOU ARE YES YOU ARE YES YOU ARE ARE ARE ARE. I'd sit in the middle of it all and lay, like I said, in a child's pose, with my head on the floor. When morning came, I'd go out and crack psychiatrists like coconuts on Fifth Avenue.  Gimme more. Back when I was full of shame I'd smoke a cigarette on my window ledge and talk to God on the 16th floor, age 18. If anybody—God, do they? If anybody saw, if anybody knew…  I used to think three, five, ten time...