In the pensiveness of night the cheap, monotonous shrill, symbolic, sensual beat of suggestive drums tatoos orgyistic images on my brain. The smell of gin and 90% beer, entwine with the sometimes suspenseful, slow, sometimes labored static, sometimes motionless, sometimes painfully rigid, till finally the long-waited for jerks and convulsions that fill the now thick chewing gum haze with a mist of sweat, fling the patrons into a fit of supressed joy. The fated 7 days a week bestial virgin bows with the poise of a drunken pavlova. Rivulets of stale perspiration glide from and between her once well-formed anatomy to the anxious, welcoming front-row celebrities who lap it up with infamous glee. The Aura of Horror. I live above it and below it… It is my Divine Comedy. The Dante of 52nd Street. There is no peace in our world. I love you.
I would like to write about nicer things or fiction but we shouldn’t avoid reality should we? The things I have just written are the truth. They are very hard to write about. I am lonely. Forgive me. I am lonely.
- James Dean, in a letter to girlfriend Barbara Glenn.