There are worse things than being mad.
The unspeakable visions of the individual.
Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind.
To think that so much comes to so little, to think that life is really short.
One night I realized that when you give people understanding and encouragement a funny little meek childish look abashes their eyes, no matter what they've been doing they weren't sure it was right - lambies all over the world.
I was amazed by the fact that I was not the only writer living, not the only young man "with a locomotive in his chest, and that's a fact," not the only youth with a million hungers and not one of them appeasable, not the only one who is lonely among multitudes, and does not know why.