Open the hood of a car and it will tell you something about the people who designed it, is just one of many phrases I’m tortured by.

And it struck me then, that I liked Sean because he looked, well, slutty. A boy who had been around. A boy who couldn't remember if he was Catholic or not.

Why would I care what other people are thinking? I don't care what an audience thinks of me.

A curtain of stars, miles of them, are scattered, glowing, across the sky and their multitude humbles me, which I have a hard time tolerating. She shrugs and nods after I say something about forms of anxiety. It's as if her mind is having a hard time communicating with her mouth, as if she is searching for a rational analysis of who I am, which is, of course, an impossibility: there... is... no... key.

I'm into, oh murders and executions mostly. It depends.

I feel I'm moving toward as well as away from something, and anything is possible.

There’s no use in denying it: this has been a bad week. I’ve started drinking my own urine.