Perhaps that's what I feel, an outside and an inside and me in the middle, perhaps that's what I am, the thing that divides the world in two, on the one side the outside, on the other the inside, that can be as thin as foil, I'm neither one side nor the other, I'm in the middle, I'm the partition, I've two surfaces and no thickness, perhaps that's what I feel, myself vibrating, I'm the tympanum, on the one hand the mind, on the other the world, I don't belong to either.

I use the words you taught me. If they don't mean anything any more, teach me others. Or let me be silent.

It was long since I had longed for anything and the effect on me was horrible.

I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of them.

God is a witness that cannot be sworn.

Silence and darkness were all I craved. Well, I get a certain amount of both. They being one.

The time is perhaps not altogether too green for the vile suggestion that art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear, and more than the light of day (or night) makes the subsolar, -lunar, and -stellar excrement. Art is the sun, moon, and stars of the mind, the whole mind.