I am one in a row of specimens. It's when I try to flutter out of line that he hates me. I'm meant to be dead, pinned, always the same, always beautiful. He knows that part of my beauty is being alive. but it's the dead me he wants. He wants me living-but-dead.

The moon hung over the planet Earth, a dead thing over a dying thing.

I love making, I love doing. I love being to the full, I love everything which is not sitting and watching and copying and dead at heart.

He felt himself in suspension between the two worlds, the warm, neat civilization behind his back, the cool, dark mystery outside. We all write poems; it is simply that poets are the ones who write in words.

And I just can't live in this present. I would go mad if I did.

I knew words were like chains, they held me back . . . the act of description taints the description.

Forgetting’s not something you do, it happens to you. Only it didn’t happen to me.