I may never be happy, but tonight I am content. At times like this I'd call myself a fool to ask for more.

I think I made you up inside my head.

I think if I had done anything else I would like to have been a doctor. This is the sort of polar opposition to being a writer, I suppose.

And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.

A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion; an insight like the flight of birds.

Very depressed today. Unable to write a thing. Menacing gods. I feel outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness.

And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.