I found when I was a child that if I put the hurt into words, it would go.

I want more of this feeling - fire and wings.

Next week, or next month, or next year I will kill myself. But I might as well last out my month's rent, which has been paid up.

Now I no longer wish to be loved, beautiful, happy or successful. I want one thing and one thing only - to be left alone.

The last time you were happy about nothing; the first time you were afraid about nothing. Which came first?

Only the magic and the dream are true — all the rest's a lie.

The musty smell, the bugs, the lonliness, this room, which is part of the street outside-this is all I want from life.