Depression hangs over me as if I were Iceland.
I have a sense of melancholy isolation, life rapidly vanishing, all the usual things. It's very strange how often strong feelings don't seem to carry any message of action
I wouldn't mind seeing China if I could come back the same day.
Sex means nothing--just the moment of ecstasy, that flares and dies in minutes.
I have wished you something None of the others would.
Home is so sad. It stays as it was left, / Shaped to the comfort of the last to go / As if to win them back