You are so terribly nimble, so clever. I distrust your cleverness. You make a wonderful pattern, everything is in its place, it looks convincingly clear, too clear. And meanwhile, where are you? Not on the clear surface of your ideas, but you have already sunk deeper, into darker regions, so that one only thinks one has been given all your thoughts, one only imagines you have emptied yourself in that clarity. But there are layers and layers - you're bottomless, unfathomable. Your clearness is deceptive. You are the thinker who arouses most confusion in me, most doubt, most disturbance.

I want to be a writer who reminds others that these moments exist; I want to prove that there is infinite space, infinite meaning, infinite dimension

... and the very folds of the curtains contained secrets and sighs.

We love best those who are, or act for us, a self we do not wish to be or act out.

I can’t let you go now. I want to go places with you; obscure little places, just to be able to say: here I came with her.

This diary is my kief, hashish and opium pipe. This is my drug and my vice.

I adore the struggle you carry in yourself. I adore your terrifying sincerity.