I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.

…I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me.

Everything in life is writable.

You ask me why I spend my life writing? Do I find entertainment? Is it worthwhile? Above all, does it pay? If not, then, is there a reason?... I write only because there is a voice within me. That will not be still.

The tulips are too red...they hurt me.

I thought the most beautiful thing in the world must be shadow.

I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.