I laid my face to the smooth face of the marble and howled my loss into the cold salt rain.

You are a dream; I hope I never meet you.

…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.

I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.

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

The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.

On the train: staring hypnotized at the blackness outside the window, feeling the incomparable rhythmic language of the wheels, clacking out nursery rhymes, summing up moments of the mind like the chant of a broken record: god is dead, god is dead. going, going, going. and the pure bliss of this, the erotic rocking of the coach. France splits open like a ripe fig in the mind; we are raping the land, we are not stopping.