…I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me.

Why am I obsessed with the idea I can justify myself by getting manuscripts published? Is it an escape-an excuse for any social failure-so I can say "No, I don't go out for many extracurricular activities, but I spend a lot of time writing."

I am inhabited by a cry. Nightly it flaps out Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.

Like a cat I have nine times to die.

People or stars Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.

When I fell out of the light, I entered The stomach of indifference, the wordless cupboard.

I saw the years of my life spaced along a road in the form of telephone poles threaded together by wires. I counted one, two, three... nineteen telephone poles, and then the wires dangled into space, and try as I would, I couldn't see a single pole beyond the nineteenth.