Let me not be weak and tell others how bleeding I am internally; how day by day it drips, and gathers, and congeals.

So learn about life. Cut yourself a big slice with the silver server, a big slice of pie. Open your eyes. Let life happen.

The door of the novel, like the door of the poem, also shuts. But not so fast, nor with such manic, unanswerable finality.

But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.

Every day is precious and I feel infinitely sad at this time melting away from me.

If the body is a temple, then tattoos are its stained glass windows.

But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn't do it.