The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.

I must not be selfless: develop a sense of self. A solidness that can't be attacked.

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.

Look at that ugly dead mask here and do not forget it. It is a chalk mask with dead dry poison behind it, like the death angel. It is what I was this fall, and what I never want to be again. The pouting disconsolate mouth, the flat, bored, numb, expressionless eyes: symptoms of the foul decay within.

Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry.

I feel occasionally my skull will crack, fatigue is continuous - I only go from less exhausted to more exhausted & back again.

If I was going to fall, I would hang on to my small comforts, at least, for as long as I possibly could.