You have to die a few times before you can really live.

and the color in my eyes has gone back into the sea.

I was young I was so young it hurt like a knife inside because there was no alternative except to hide as long as possible--- not in self-pity but with dismay at my limited chance: trying to connect.

A love like that was a serious illness, an illness from which you never entirely recover.

It’s not so much that nothing means anything but more that it keeps meaning nothing. there’s no release, just gurus and self- appointed gods and hucksters. the more people say, the less there is to say. even the best books are dry sawdust.

I often stood in front of the mirror alone, wondering how ugly a person could get.

I had noticed that both in the very poor and very rich extremes of society the mad were often allowed to mingle freely.