I enjoy prose for prose. It's how I get through plotless novels. If you're saying something beautiful in an ugly way, like Bukowski, I'll listen. If you're filling the air with the grass and flowers of Ginsberg, even if you're not saying anything, I'll listen.
Only human, that's all he has left of his humanity.
My favorite muralist is Orozco.
From the grey nothingness we are born and into the obscurity of death we fade. The twisted between is something of a monotonous brilliance.