我们什么都有，什么都没有有些人在教堂里这样做有些人把蝴蝶撕成两半有些人在棕榈泉这样做把它放在有着凯迪拉克灵魂的金发女郎身上凯迪拉克和蝴蝶什么都没有，什么都没有，脸融化到最后一口烟在科珀斯克里斯蒂的地窖里。有些东西是给小贩、修女、杂货店店员和你的……早上8点有事，图书馆有事，河里有事，什么都有，什么都没有。在屠宰场里，它挂在钩子上顺着天花板跑过来，你把它甩一甩，一甩，二甩，三甩，然后你就搞定了，价值200美元的死肉，它的骨头撞在你的骨头上，什么也没有。死总是太早，但总是太迟了，盆里的血钻出白色，它什么也告诉不了你，掘墓人在凌晨5点喝咖啡时打扑克，等待草的霜冻散去……他们什么也没告诉你。我们什么都有，但我们什么都没有——玻璃边的日子和河苔难闻的臭味——比屎还糟糕;棋盘上日复一日的走棋和反击，让人兴趣盎然，对失败和胜利都有同样的感觉;慢慢吞吞的日子，像骡子在泥泞、阴沉、洒满阳光的路上走着，路上有个疯子坐在那里等着，在捕了网的冠蓝鸦和鹪鹩中间，吮吸着灰蒙蒙的头发。美好的日子也是这样:有酒，有喊叫，有巷子里的斗殴，有女人的肥腿在你的肚子周围挣扎，你的肚子被埋在呻吟中，斗牛场里像钻石一样的标语在呼喊着卡普里母亲，有紫罗兰从地里冒出来，告诉你要忘记死去的军队和夺走你的爱情。 days when children say funny and brilliant things like savages trying to send you a message through their bodies while their bodies are still alive enough to transmit and feel and run up and down without locks and paychecks and ideals and possessions and beetle-like opinions. days when you can cry all day long in a green room with the door locked, days when you can laugh at the breadman because his legs are too long, days of looking at hedges . . . and nothing, and nothing, the days of the bosses, yellow men with bad breath and big feet, men who look like frogs, hyenas, men who walk as if melody had never been invented, men who think it is intelligent to hire and fire and profit, men with expensive wives they possess like 60 acres of ground to be drilled or shown-off or to be walled away from the incompetent, men who'd kill you because they're crazy and justify it because it's the law, men who stand in front of windows 30 feet wide and see nothing, men with luxury yachts who can sail around the world and yet never get out of their vest pockets, men like snails, men like eels, men like slugs, and not as good . . . and nothing, getting your last paycheck at a harbor, at a factory, at a hospital, at an aircraft plant, at a penny arcade, at a barbershop, at a job you didn't want anyway. income tax, sickness, servility, broken arms, broken heads -- all the stuffing come out like an old pillow. we have everything and we have nothing. some do it well enough for a while and then give way. fame gets them or disgust or age or lack of proper diet or ink across the eyes or children in college or new cars or broken backs while skiing in Switzerland or new politics or new wives or just natural change and decay -- the man you knew yesterday hooking for ten rounds or drinking for three days and three nights by the Sawtooth mountains now just something under a sheet or a cross or a stone or under an easy delusion, or packing a bible or a golf bag or a briefcase: how they go, how they go! -- all the ones you thought would never go. days like this. like your day today. maybe the rain on the window trying to get through to you. what do you see today? what is it? where are you? the best days are sometimes the first, sometimes the middle and even sometimes the last. the vacant lots are not bad, churches in Europe on postcards are not bad. people in wax museums frozen into their best sterility are not bad, horrible but not bad. the cannon, think of the cannon, and toast for breakfast the coffee hot enough you know your tongue is still there, three geraniums outside a window, trying to be red and trying to be pink and trying to be geraniums, no wonder sometimes the women cry, no wonder the mules don't want to go up the hill. are you in a hotel room in Detroit looking for a cigarette? one more good day. a little bit of it. and as the nurses come out of the building after their shift, having had enough, eight nurses with different names and different