Stunned and still not suffering. Swollen with care and anxiety and still not suffering. Useless, old and full of grief, but still not suffering.

My friends are gone and my hair is grey. I ache in places I used to play. And I’m crazy for love but I’m not coming on. I’m just paying my rent every day in the tower of song.

And I'll bury my soul in a scrapbook, with the photographs there and the moths.

I think there's an appetite for seriousness. Seriousness is voluptuous, and very few people have allowed themselves the luxury of it.

What [Prozac] does is completely annihilate the sexual drive, so the question of passion hardly arises.

Your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm

Friend, when you speak this carefully I know it is because you don't know what to say.