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

I think we've all lost some kind of feeling.

I am gripped by an existential panic.

I want to moan and writhe with you and I want to go up to you and kiss your mouth and pull you to me and say "I love you I love you I love you" while stripping. I want you so bad it stings.

History is sinking and only a very few seem dimly aware that things are getting bad.

What does that mean know me, know me, nobody ever knows anybody else, ever! You will never know me.

You do not write a novel for praise, or thinking of your audience. You write for yourself; you work out between you and your pen the things that intrigue you