But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.

I felt overstuffed and dull and disappointed, the way I always do the day after Christmas.

If you love her", I said, "you'll love somebody else someday.

Sometimes I feel like I'm not solid. I'm hollow. There's nothing behind my eyes. I'm a negative of a person. All I want is blackness, blackness and silence.

I wonder why I don't go to bed and go to sleep. But then it would be tomorrow, so I decide that no matter how tired, no matter how incoherent I am, I can skip on hour more of sleep and live.

The box is only temporary.

I felt wise and cynical as all hell.