The sickness rolled through me in great waves. After each wave it would fade away and leave me limp as a wet leaf and shivering all over and then I would feel it rising up in me again, and the glittering white torture chamber tiles under my feet and over my head and all four sides closed in and squeezed me to pieces.

I laid my face to the smooth face of the marble and howled my loss into the cold salt rain.

I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.

In this particular tub, two knees jut up like icebergs, while minute brown hairs rise on arms and legs in a fringe of kelp; green soap navigates the tidal slosh of seas breaking on legendary beaches; in faith we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail among sacred islands of the mad till death shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.

The day I went into physics class it was death.

Everything people did seemed so silly, because they only died in the end.

I think writers are the most narcissistic people. Well, I musn't say this, I like many of them, a great many of my friends are writers.