Tomorrow I will curse the dawn, but there will be other, earlier nights, and the dawns will be no longer hell laid out in alarms and raw bells and sirens.

Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements.

I am myself. That is not enough.

Not being perfect hurts.

My wanting to write books annihilates the original root impulse that would have me bravely and blunderingly working on them.

I felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions.

I like people, but to learn about one individual always appeals to me more than anything.