I have the one person I could ever love in this world. Now I must work to be a person worthy of that.

I can't think logically about who I am or where I am going. I have been very ecstatic, horribly depressed, shocked, elated, enlightened, and enervated.

The one man in the room who was as big as his poems, huge, with hulk and dynamic chunks of words.

At this rate, I'd be lucky if I wrote a page a day. Then I knew what the problem was. I needed experience. How could I write about life when I'd never had a love affair or a baby or even seen anybody die? A girl I knew had just won a prize for a short story about her adventures among the pygmies in Africa. How could I compete with that sort of thing?

If only a group of people were more important to me than the idea of a Novel, I might begin a novel.

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

…beating time along the edge of thought.