If only a group of people were more important to me than the idea of a Novel, I might begin a novel.

I was supposed to be having the time of my life.

I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.

I have to live my life, and it is the only one I’ll ever have.

Jealousy can open the blood, it can make black roses.

Is anyone anywhere happy?

I wanted to tell her that if only something were wrong with my body it would be fine, I would rather have anything wrong with my body than something wrong with my head, but the idea seemed so involved and wearisome that I didn’t say anything. I only burrowed down further in the bed.