You don't realize what a strain it is on the nerves to write or think-of-writing all day long, and to sleep full of nervous dreams, and to wake up not knowing who one is: this all stems from anxiety about finishing the book, about time 'growing short', etc., and the perpetual strain of invention.

Our radio plays rhythm and blues as we pass the joint back and forth in jutjawed silence both looking ahead with big private thoughts now so vast we can't communicate them anymore and if we tried it would take a million years and a billion books - Too late, too late, the history of everything we've seen together and separately has become a library in itself - The shelves pile higher - They're full of misty documents or documents of the Mist-.

I feel guilty for being a member of the human race.

Writing at least is a silent meditation even though you’re going a hundred miles an hour.

They build their own Hells.

And still the Void is still and'll never move - But I will be the Void, moving without having moved.

Suppose we suddenly wake up and see that what we thought to be this and that, ain't this and that at all?