Eternity bores me, I never wanted it.
I am dead to them, even though I once flowered.
because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.
The floor seemed wonderfully solid. It was comforting to know I had fallen and could fall no farther.
You know what lies are for.
Do I like to write? Why? About what? Will I give up and say, "Living and feeding a man's insatiable guts and begetting children occupies my whole life. Don't have time to write"?