Don't let the wicked city get you down.

I have taken a pill to kill The thin Papery feeling.

Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.

I began to think vodka was my drink at last. It didn’t taste like anything, but it went straight down into my stomach like a sword swallowers’ sword and made me feel powerful and godlike.

If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.

How can I tell Bob that my happiness streams from having wrenched a piece out of my life, a piece of hurt and beauty, and transformed it to typewritten words on paper? How can he know I am justifying my life, my keen emotions, my feeling, by turning it into print?

My worst habit is my fear & my destructive rationalizing.