The future is what matters — because one never reaches it, but always stays in the present — like the White Queen who had to run like the wind to remain in the same spot.

After all, we are nothing more or less than we choose to reveal.

I feel self-repressed again. The old fall disease. Where is my willpower? The idea of a life gets in the way of my life...I dream too much, work too little.

The truth comes to me. The truth loves me.

The slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull.

I inhabit the wax image of myself, a doll's body. Sickness begins here; I am a dartboard for witches.

I want to write because I have the urge to excel in one medium of translation and expression of life. I can't be satisfied with the colossal job of merely living. Oh, no, I must order life in sonnets and sestinas and provide a verbal reflector for my 60-watt lighted head.