I know this body is impatient. I know I constitute only a meager voice and mind. Yet I loved, I love. I want no sentimentality. I want no more than home.

I don’t think any man writing can worry about what the act of writing costs him, even though at times he is very aware of it.

No matter how wild reality was obviously often being, it was an absolutely secure place, as a tone and intelligence, and a thing happening.

Hopefully, I write what I don't know.

Moon, moon, when you leave me alone all the darkness is an utter blackness, a pit of fear, a stench, hands unreasonable never to touch. But I love you. Do you love me. What to say when you see me.

I know this body is impatient. I know I constitute only a meager voice and mind. Yet I loved, I love. I want no sentimentality. I want no more than home.

The pattern of the narrative never of necessity wants to end, it never has to.