too often, the only escape is sleep

I'm going to open another vottle. not a vottle, but a bottle. you open it and I'll drink it. and you try to write as much as I did without falling off of your chair.

The courage it took to get out of bed each morning to face the same things over and over was enormous.

I've found out why men sign their names to their works- not that they created them but more than the others did not.

I want so much that is not here and do not know where to go.

it is all ash and dry leaves and grief gone like an ocean liner.

I could never accept life as it was, I could never gobble down all its poisons bu there were parts, tenuous magic parts open for the asking.