Each man's hell is in a different place: mine is just up and behind my ruined face.

If I have any advice to anybody it's this: take up watercolor painting.

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

Women: I liked the colors of their clothing; the way they walked; the cruelty in some faces; now and then the almost pure beauty in another face, totally and enchantingly female. They had it over us: they planned much better and were better organized. While men were watching professional football or drinking beer or bowling, they, the women, were thinking about us, concentrating, studying, deciding - whether to accept us, discard us, exchange us, kill us or whether simply to leave us. In the end it hardly mattered; no matter what they did, we ended up lonely and insane.

I am a poem. There is no way out.

Why did I come here? I thought. Why is it always only a matter of choosing between something bad and something worse?

Can you remember who you were, before the world told you who you should be?