I didn't know what I was doing in New York.
My wanting to write books annihilates the original root impulse that would have me bravely and blunderingly working on them.
All I want is blackness. Blackness and silence.
It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.
When I fell out of the light, I entered The stomach of indifference, the wordless cupboard.
I talk to God but the sky is empty.