I write as if to save somebody’s life. Probably my own. Life is a kind of madness that death makes. Long live the dead because we live in them.

Holding someone's hand was always my idea of joy.

I write and that way rid myself of me and then at last I can rest.

To think is an act. To feel is a fact.

And I want to be held down. I don't know what to do with the horrifying freedom that can destroy me.

Putting my hand in someone else’s has always been my definition of happiness. Before I fall asleep, often - in that small struggle not to lose consciousness and go into the greater world - often, before I get up the courage to go into the vastness of sleep, I pretend that someone has my hand in theirs, and then I go, go to that enormous absence of form that is sleep. And when even after that I don’t have courage, I dream.

I' is merely one of the world's instantaneous spasms.