If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.
You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.
I felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions.
I felt dumb and subdued. Every time I tried to concentrate, my mind glided off, like a skater, into a large empty space, and pirouetted there, absently.
A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion; an insight like the flight of birds.
When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn’t know. "Oh, sure you know," the photographer said. "She wants," said Jay Cee wittily, "to be everything.