The lawn was white with doctors

I wanted to crawl in between those black lines of print, the way you crawl through a fence, and go to sleep under that beautiful big green fig-tree.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, White as a knuckle and terribly upset. It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.

Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person

If neurotic is wanting two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then I'm neurotic as hell.

A ring of gold with the sun in it? Lies. Lies and a grief.

The night sky is only a sort of carbon paper, Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars Letting in the light, peephole after peephole--- A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.