The only thing I could think of was turkey neck and turkey gizzards and I felt very depressed.

They would grow old. They would forget me.

If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.

My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.

I think I made you up inside my head.

And I, love, am a pathological liar.

Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing.