I like people too much or not at all. I've got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them.

There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.

Masks are the order of the day - and the least I can do is cultivate the illusion that I am gay, serene, not hollow and afraid.

I am dead to them, even though I once flowered.

Antoine St. Exupery once mourned the loss of a man and the secret treasures that he held inside him. I loved Exupery; I will read him again, and he will talk to me, not being dead, or gone. Is that life after death — mind living on paper and flesh living in offspring? Maybe. I do not know.

I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.

How many different deaths I can die?