As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.

Thief!- how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long.

Don’t worry if they say you’re crazy. They said that about me and yet I was saner than all of them. I knew. No matter. You know. Insane or sane, you know. It’s a good thing to know - no matter what they call it.

Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.

A woman / who loves a woman / is forever young.

The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives

Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there; something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind