I must bridge the gap between adolescent glitter and mature glow.

Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing, which remark I guess shows I still don't have a pure motive (O it's-such-fun-I-just-can't-stop-who-cares-if-it's-published-or-read) about writing.

I can't be satisfied with the colossal job of merely living.

There is something demoralizing about watching two people get more and more crazy about each other, especially when you are the only extra person in the room.

I am not cruel, only truthful.

I didn’t want my picture taken because I was going to cry. I didn’t know why I was going to cry, but I knew that if anybody spoke to me or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of my throat and I’d cry for a week. I could feel the tears brimming and sloshing in me like water in a glass that is unsteady and too full.

There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone.