Being is. Being is in-itself. Being is what it is.

To read a poem in January is as lovely as to go for a walk in June

I wanted my own words. But the ones I use have dragged through I don't know how many consciences.

The lad who dreams of being a boxing champion or an admiral chooses reality. If the writer chooses the imaginary, he confuses the two.

My eyes feel all soft, all soft as flesh. I'm going to sleep.

I maintain that inversion is the effect of neither a prenatal choice nor an endocrinal malformation nor even the passive and determined result of complexes. It is an outlet that a child discovers when he is suffocating.

If I relegate impossible Salvation to the prop room, what remains? A whole man, composed of all men and as good as all of them and no better than any.