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

I must bridge the gap between adolescent glitter and mature glow.

But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn't do it.

Remember, remember, this is now, and now, and now. Live it, feel it, cling to it. I want to become acutely aware of all I’ve taken for granted.

Life was not to be sitting in hot amorphic leisure in my backyard idly writing or not writing, as the spirit moved me. It was, instead, running madly, in a crowded schedule, in a squirrel cage of busy people. Working, living, dancing, dreaming, talking, kissing- singing, laughing, learning.

Here I am, a bundle of past recollections and future dreams, knotted up in a reasonably attractive bundle of flesh. I remember what this flesh has gone through; I dream of what it may go through.

Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.