I collect men with interesting names.

I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly, as the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.

I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?

My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.

Doreen had intuition. Everything she said was like a secret voice speaking straight out of my own bones.

Bright beads of red are rising through the ink, Hearts-blood bubbles smearing out into the black stream

When I fell out of the light, I entered The stomach of indifference, the wordless cupboard.