It's a hell of a responsibility to be yourself. It's much easier to be somebody else or nobody at all.

But when I took up my pen, my hand made big, jerky letters like those of a child, and the lines sloped down the page from left to right horizontally, as if they were loops of string lying on the paper, and someone had come along and blown them askew.

I would say everything should be able to come into a poem, but I can't put toothbrushes into a poem, I really can't!

Do we always grind through the present, doomed to throw a gold haze of fond retrospect over the past?

I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.

I can't think logically about who I am or where I am going. I have been very ecstatic, horribly depressed, shocked, elated, enlightened, and enervated.

And if you have no past or future which, after all, is all that the present is made of, why then you may as well dispose of the empty shell of present and commit suicide.