I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God, but the sky is empty, and Orion walks by and doesn't speak.

No day is safe from news of you.

I do not love; I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit.

I felt overstuffed and dull and disappointed, the way I always do the day after Christmas.

The blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it.

Is it the sea you hear in me? Its dissatisfactions? Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness? Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it.

I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life.