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

The one man in the room who was as big as his poems, huge, with hulk and dynamic chunks of words.

I felt dumb and subdued. Every time I tried to concentrate, my mind glided off, like a skater, into a large empty space, and pirouetted there, absently.

The trouble about jumping was that if you didn't pick the right number of stories, you might still be alive when you hit bottom.

The sickness rolled through me in great waves. After each wave it would fade away and leave me limp as a wet leaf and shivering all over and then I would feel it rising up in me again, and the glittering white torture chamber tiles under my feet and over my head and all four sides closed in and squeezed me to pieces.

What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don't know and I'm afraid.

How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.