Johnny Thunders is dead. Hit and run. Hadn't seen my poor, neglected Johnny in months, and here I am burying him. With my bare hands and a shovel I am burying him. In the backyard of the house Phoebe and I had once lived in together, he is being buried. I look over and see Flora, Phoebe's bitch mother, the same woman who's convinced everyone, including Phoebe, what a "e;childish mess"e; I am; which, in a sense, is true, but Christ, what a lousy thing to tell people—to take so much pleasure in telling people.
