And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness

And I, stepping from this skin Of old bandages, boredoms, old faces Step to you from the black car of Lethe, Pure as a baby.

God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.

I would catch sight of some flawless man off in the distance, but as soon as he moved closer I immediately saw he wouldn’t do at all.

Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing.

I lay and cried, and began to feel again, to admit I was human, vulnerable, sensitive. I began to remember how it had been before; how there was that germ of positive creativeness. Character is fate; and damn, I'd better work on my character. I had been withdrawing into a retreat of numbness: it is so much safer to NOT feel, NOT to let the world touch one.

I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy.