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

That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. "Save them for my funeral," I'd said.

There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone.

I love people. Everybody. I love them, I think, as a stamp collector loves his collection. Every story, every incident, every bit of conversation is raw material for me.

Kiss me and you will see how important I am.

I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.

Antoine St. Exupery once mourned the loss of a man and the secret treasures that he held inside him. I loved Exupery; I will read him again, and he will talk to me, not being dead, or gone. Is that life after death — mind living on paper and flesh living in offspring? Maybe. I do not know.