If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.

I wonder about all the roads not taken and am moved to quote Frost...but won't. It is sad to be able only to mouth other poets. I want someone to mouth me.

Talking about my fears to others feeds it.

So, now I shall talk every night. To myself. To the moon. I shall walk, as I did tonight, jealous of my loneliness, in the blue-silver of the cold moon, shining brilliantly on the drifts of fresh-fallen snow, with the myriad sparkles. I talk to myself and look at the dark trees, blessedly neutral. So much easier than facing people, than having to look happy, invulnerable, clever.

I tried to speak in a cool, calm way, but the zombie rose up in my throat and choked me off.

They would grow old. They would forget me.

I am terrified by this dark thing That sleeps in me; All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.