"There was something wrong with me. I did think of sex a great deal. Each woman I looked at, I imagined being in bed with(...) Women. I liked the colors of their clothing; the way they walked; the cruelty in some faces; now and then, the almost pure beauty in another face -- totally and enchantingly female. They had it over us. They planned much better and were better organized. While men were watching professional football or drinking beer or bowling, they, the women, were thinking about us, concentrating, studying, deciding -- whether to accept us, discard us, exchange us, kill us, or whether simply to leave us. In the end, it hardly mattered; no matter what they did, we ended up lonely and insane."
- Bukowski
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