A terrible depression yesterday. Visions of my life petering out into a kind of soft-brained stupor from lack of use.

I guess they call it suicide, but I'm to full to swallow my pride I can't stand losing you The Police Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.

I knew chemistry would be worse, because I'd seen a big card of the ninety-odd elements hung up in the chemistry lab, and all the perfectly good words like gold and silver and cobalt and aluminum were shortened to ugly abbreviations with different decimal numbers after them.

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

Perhaps you considered yourself an oracle, Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other. Thirty years now I have labored To dredge the silt from your throat. I am none the wiser.

I had been alone more than I could have been had I gone by myself.

No day is safe from news of you.