The city was asleep on its right side and shaking with violent nightmares. Long puffs of snoring came out of the chimneys. Its feet were sticking out because the clouds did not cover it altogether. There was a hole in them and the white feathers were falling out. The city had untied all its bridges like so many buttons to feel at ease. Wherever there was a lamplight the city scratched itself until it went out.

Nature forms us for ourselves, not for others; to be, not to seem.

A man who lives unrelated to other human beings dies. But a man who lives unrelated to himself also dies.

My diary seems to keep me whole.

If you are terribly truthful, the ground will always move from under you, and you will have to shift with the constantly shifting truth.

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

Write. Write until it stops hurting.