Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.

Sometimes I feel so stupid and dull and uncreative that I am amazed when people tell me differently.

If they substituted the word 'Lust' for 'Love' in the popular songs it would come nearer the truth.

I suppose I'll always be over-vulnerable, slightly paranoid.

The silence drew off, baring the pebbles and shells and all the tatty wreckage of my life.

It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it.

I wonder why I don't go to bed and go to sleep. But then it would be tomorrow, so I decide that no matter how tired, no matter how incoherent I am, I can skip on hour more of sleep and live.