It is a terrible thing to be so open: it is as if my heart put on a face and walked into the world.

If I was going to fall, I would hang on to my small comforts, at least, for as long as I possibly could.

Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing.

I felt dumb and subdued. Every time I tried to concentrate, my mind glided off, like a skater, into a large empty space, and pirouetted there, absently.

The lawn was white with doctors

Miracles occur, If you dare to call those spasmodic Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again, The long wait for the angel, For that rare, random descent.

Do we always grind through the present, doomed to throw a gold haze of fond retrospect over the past?