Feel oddly barren. My sickness is when words draw in their horns and the physical world refuses to be ordered, recreated, arranged and selected. I am a victim of it then, not a master.

...we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail among sacred islands of the mad till death shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.

I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.

August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.

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

My mother said the cure for thinking too much about yourself was helping somebody who was worse off than you.

Today is the first of August. It is hot, steamy and wet. It is raining. I am tempted to write a poem. But I remember what it said on one rejection slip: 'After a heavy rainfall, poems titled 'Rain' pour in from across the nation.