Cheers for spring; for life; for a growing soul.
I must not be selfless: develop a sense of self. A solidness that can't be attacked.
I want to write because I have the urge to excel in one medium of translation and expression of life. I can't be satisfied with the colossal job of merely living. Oh, no, I must order life in sonnets and sestinas and provide a verbal reflector for my 60-watt lighted head.
I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.
I am made, crudely, for success.
I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.