I have learned to smoke because I need something to hold onto.

What you forget is that plants themselves want to live as much as you want them to. More.

Music is the unspoken language that can convey feelings more accurately than talking ever could.

I feel helpless, hopeless, too low to call out, too weak to think. Impotent tears dribble down.

Knowing it can always get worse, I try to be grateful for whatever good I have.

O I know they make war because they want peace; they hate so that they may live; and they destroy the present to make the world safe for the future. When have they not done and said they did it for that?

I review all I know, but can synthesize no meaning. When I doze, the Fact, the certain accomplished calamity, wakes me roughly like a brutal nurse. I see it crouching inflexibly in a corner of the ceiling. It comes down in geometrical diagonal like lightning.It says, I remain, I AM, I shall never cease to be: your memory will grow a deathly glaze: you will forget, you will fade out, but I cannot be undone.Thus every quarter hour it puts the taste of death in my mouth, and shows me, but not gently, how I go whoring after oblivion.