I had my jazz club and I had enough money. So I didn't have to write for my living.
In a sense, I'm the one who ruined me: I did it myself.
Until the bitter end, the emptiness inside her was hers alone.
sometimes I think I've got this hard kernel in my heart, and nothing much can get inside it. I doubt if I can really love anybody.
Most everything you think you know about me is nothing more than memories.
Time passes slowly. Nobody says a word, everyone lost in quiet reading. One person sits at a desk jotting down notes, but the rest are sitting there silently, not moving, totally absorbed. Just like me.