If I stop writing I am dead. And that's the only way I'll stop: dead.

it is good to be sitting some place in public at 2:30 in the afternoon without getting the flesh ripped from your bones.

how can you be true and kind at the same time? how?

I was a bore and didn't know when to smile or fake it. Or rather worse, I did but didn't.

Early evening traffic was beginning to clog the avenue with cars. The sun slanted down behind him. Harry glanced at the drivers of the cars. They seemed unhappy. The world was unhappy. People were in the dark. People were terrified and disappointed. People were caught in traps. People were defensive and frantic. They felt as if their lives were being wasted. And they were right.

Things get bad for all of us, almost continually, and what we do under the constant stress reveals who/what we are.

your letters got sadder. your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all lovers betray. it didn't help. you said you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and the bridge was over the river and you sat on the crying bench every night and wept for the lovers who had hurt and forgotten you.