I'm sarcastic, skeptical, and sometimes callous because I'm still afraid, deep down, of letting myself be hurt.

I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.

I find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life than in poetry.

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

I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.

I woke to the sound of rain.

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary. The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.