I feel that writing is still there, I can feel the words bitting into the paper, it’s as needed as ever […] Writing has saved me from the madhouse, from murder and suicide. I still need it. Now. Tomorrow. Until the last breath. The hangovers are worse for me now but I still get out of bed, into the car and out to the track. I make my plays. The other bettors never bother me. “That guy doesn’t talk to anybody”.
Then, at night, sometimes it’s there on the computer. If it isn’t, I don’t shove it through. Unless the words jump out of you, forget it. Sometimes I don’t get near the computer because nothing’s buzzing and I’m either dead or resting and only time will tell. But I’m dead until the next line appears on the screen. It’s not a holy thing but it’s wholly necessary. Yeah. Yes. Meanwhile, I try to be as human as possible: talk to my wife, pet my cats, sit and watch tv if I am able or maybe just read the newspaper from first page to last or maybe just sleep early. Being 72 is another adventure. When I’m 92 I’ll look back at that and laugh. No, I’ve gone about far enough. It’s too much like the same movie. Except for all of us it’s getting a little uglier. I never thought I’d be here now and when I go, I’ll be ready.
Charles Bukowski a Jack Grapes, 1992.