I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.

I wonder about all the roads not taken and am moved to quote Frost...but won't. It is sad to be able only to mouth other poets. I want someone to mouth me.

Now I know what loneliness is, I think. Momentary loneliness, anyway. It comes from a vague core of the self - - like a disease of the blood, dispersed throughout the body so that one cannot locate the matrix, the spot of contagion.

When you are insane, you are busy being insane-all the time ... when I was crazy, that was all I was.

I feel, am mad as any writer must in one way be; why not make it real? I am too close to the bourgeois society of suburbia: too close to people I know I must sever my self from them, or be a part of their world: this half and half compromise is intolerable.

After all, we are nothing more or less than we choose to reveal.

I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.