I wondered what I thought I was burying.

Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that - I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much - so very much to learn.

A little thing, like children putting flowers in my hair, can fill up the widening cracks in my self-assurance like soothing lanolin.

England offers new comforts. I could write a novel there.

Opinions are like orgasms...mine matters most and I really don't care if you have one.

I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.

With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can't start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It's like quicksand... hopeless from the start.