When I fell out of the light, I entered The stomach of indifference, the wordless cupboard.

Let me not be weak and tell others how bleeding I am internally; how day by day it drips, and gathers, and congeals.

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

I do not love; I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit. I have none of the selfless love of my mother. I have none of the plodding, practical love. . . . . I am, to be blunt and concise, in love only with myself, my puny being with its small inadequate breasts and meager, thin talents. I am capable of affection for those who reflect my own world.

I guess they call it suicide, but I'm to full to swallow my pride I can't stand losing you The Police Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.

It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it.

Read widely of others' experiences, even if it'd be more comfortable to snuggle back in the comforting cotton-wool of blissful ignorance.