When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn't know.

The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.

August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.

All I want is blackness. Blackness and silence.

The artist's life nourishes itself on the particular, the concrete.

You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.

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