Since I stopped writing, I read more than ever. Other people's words, not my own - my words are gone.

Who cares for Algebra?Who delights in solving math?I only want to live my lifeAlong the creative path.

You are all the colors in one, at full brightness.

The great thing about this life of ours is that you can be someone different to everybody.

We are all alone, trapped in these bodies and our own minds, and whatever company we have in this life is only fleeting and superficial.

It's my experience that people are a lot more sympathetic if they can see you hurting, and for the millionth time in my life I wish for measles or smallpox or some other easily understood disease just to make it easier on me and also on them.

I should be happy, but instead I feel nothing. I feel a lot of nothing these days. I've cried a few times, but mostly I'm empty, as if whatever makes me feel and hurt and laugh and love has been surgically removed, leaving me hollowed out like a shell.