A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity.

In a way, you are poetry material; You are full of cloudy subtleties I am willing to spend a lifetime figuring out. Words burst in your essence and you carry their dust in the pores of your ethereal individuality.

But what if all the tranquility, all the comfort, all the contentment were now to come to a horrifying end?

You are at once both the quiet and the confusion of my heart.

People keep themselves at a tolerable height above an infernal abyss toward which they gravitate only by putting out all their strength and lovingly helping one another. They are tied together by ropes, and it's bad enough when the ropes around an individual loosen and he drops somewhat lower than the others into empty space; ghastly when the ropes break and he falls. That's why we should cling to the others.

Writing is a sweet, wonderful reward.

What if I slept a little more and forgot about all this nonsense.