My notes have a curious tendency, as I realize at last, to annihilate all they purport to record.

Dance first. Think later. It's the natural order.

If I were in the unenviable position of having to study my work my points of departure would be the "Naught is more real ..." and the "Ubi nihil vales ..." both already in Murphy and neither very rational.

Nothing matters but the writing. There has been nothing else worthwhile... a stain upon the silence.

Yes, there were times when I forgot not only who I was but that I was, forgot to be.

All that is active, all that is enveloped in time and space, is endowed with what might be described as an abstract, ideal and absolute impermeability.

My keepers, why keepers, I'm in no danger of stirring an inch, ah I see, it's to make me think I'm a prisoner, frantic with corporeality, rearing to get out and away.