You are a dream; I hope I never meet you.

I am afraid. I am not solid, but hollow. I feel behind my eyes a numb, paralyzed cavern, a pit of hell, a mimicking nothingness.

My mother said the cure for thinking too much about yourself was helping somebody who was worse off than you.

It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.

* to know a lot of people I love pieces of, and to want to synthesize those pieces in me somehow, be it by painting or writing. * to know that millions of others are unhappy and that life is a gentleman's agreement to grin and paint your face gay so others will feel they are silly to be unhappy, and try to catch the contagion of joy, while inside so many are dying of bitterness and unfulfillment.

If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, You’ll halt the clock That syncopates our love.

Jealousy can open the blood, it can make black roses.